Legionary: Viper of the North (22 page)

They had circled for what felt like an eternity near the gates, waiting on an opportunity to slip out with another party. Gallus had been sure he felt eyes watching them suspiciously when they finally tagged onto the trail of the flax cart. Now outside he wanted with all his heart to heel his mount into a gallop.

He looked ahead, to the opening of the rocky pass that would lead them away from Athanaric’s heartland. ‘This cart is headed for the farms. When we reach the mouth of the pass, we will be alone, and we will be challenged,’ he whispered to Salvian, nodding to the two spear-wielding sentries posted halfway up the rock face, guarding this end of the pass.

Salvian’s eyes were already upon the pair. ‘It’s all about perception, Tribunus. Those sentries will see a group of Gothic riders approaching, nothing more.’

Gallus shook his head. ‘Our garb will count for little as soon as they bark at us in their jagged tongue. I speak their language but I sound as Roman as they come; same with Felix.’ Then he turned to Tarquitius. ‘Senator?’

Tarquitius’ face was blue, his eyelids and nose coated in frost. ‘He . . . he is a shade . . . ‘ Tarquitius mumbled repeatedly.

Gallus frowned and looked to Salvian.

Salvian cocked an eyebrow then issued that now familiar half-smile of his. ‘It seems that my mentor is compromised. It is down to me to guide us home.’

They trotted through the snow, knee deep to their mounts in places, and the sky was almost black over the pass. Then the gaze of the two sentries fell upon them and the nearest one barked down a challenge.

Salvian calmly lowered his hood, taking care to ruffle his hair as he did so, pushing his locks out of the neat Roman style he wore them in. When Salvian replied, his accent was in perfect harmony with the sentry’s.

Gallus cast a furtive glance at Salvian and saw just what the ambassador had said the Goths would see: an unkempt, ordinary Gothic rider in shabby clothes.
You sly dog
, Gallus mused.

The sentry hesitated for a moment, then Salvian barked in an impatient tone, flapping a hand down the pass and then shrugging. At last, the sentry nodded for them to proceed.

The three moved into the pass, and almost as soon as they did so, the dark clouds to the west opened, pebble-sized clumps of snow drifting down in a thick fall.

Gallus felt elation in his veins, but noticed Salvian glancing back to the plain of Dardarus, frowning.

‘Ambassador?’

‘Be ready, Tribunus,’ he looked Gallus in the eye, ‘I sensed undue hesitation from those sentries. They were aware of something . . . ’

‘The boy at the stables – perhaps he has . . . ’ Felix started.

Then the wailing of a Gothic war horn filled the pass from the Dardarus end.

Felix and Gallus gawped at one another. Tarquitius was jolted from his frozen malaise.

‘Ride!’ Salvian roared, the words echoing along the pass.

At once, the four heeled their mounts into a gallop. The thundering of hooves was not enough to drown out the stretching of a hundred bowstrings, if not more, high above them. Then the creaking stopped, replaced by a growing hiss like a thousand asps. Gallus held his breath, wishing he had brought his helmet with him. Then, all around them and in the wake of their gallop, Gothic arrows thudded down from above, tips hammering through the frozen earth and shafts quivering in anger.

‘Split,’ Gallus roared over the whinny of his terrified beast, ‘ride as I do!’ The tribunus yanked his stallion’s reins, urging her to slice across the front of the other three, veering left and then sharply right in turn, staying just a half stride ahead of the clusters of arrows.

He glanced back to see Felix and Salvian, fortunately skilled riders, following suit without following his path exactly, and Tarquitius struggling to keep up at the back. Gallus grimaced and faced front again – the other end of the pass was still a good few stadia ahead. ‘Mithras, give us hope!’

Then, as if the God of the legions had heard his name being called, the wind in the pass grew to a powerful gust. The air around them thickened, not with arrows, but with driving, blinding snow. The arrow hail slowed, and the accuracy fell away as the trail through the pass was rendered invisible to the archers above.

‘It seems the Christian God is not all-powerful yet?’ Salvian panted through a wry half-smile.

Gallus lifted his dagger from his belt, then tossed the blade, hilt first, to Salvian, while Felix offered his blade to Tarquitius. ‘We’re not out of trouble yet and we must stay on our guard. I hope you can fight as well as you talk, Ambassador.’

Salvian cocked an eyebrow, eyeing the blade. ‘I hope so too.’

A dry chuckle escaped Gallus’ lips, but was cut short when the ground around them seemed to quake. From the Dardarus end of the pass, the roar and rumble of cavalry grew louder and louder.

The four shared a look of dread, then Gallus heeled his mount into a gallop for the far end. ‘Ya!’

Snatching glances over his shoulder, he saw the grey-white of the blizzard twist and turn. Then it stilled for just a moment to reveal Gothic riders; fifty of them, snarling behind spears, shields and helmets and haring in on them at full gallop.

‘They’re gaining on us, sir!’ Felix roared over the howl of the blizzard.

‘Here,’ Gallus snarled, pulling the pair of plumbatae he had clipped into his belt that morning, ‘slow them down with these.’

He heard Felix’s manic cackle over the tumult as the primus pilus loosed the weighted darts at their pursuers. With a pair of distant groans, two Gothic riders were skewered out of the equation.

‘Just the rest of them now, sir,’ Felix roared.

‘And those up ahead,’ Salvian cried, jabbing a finger forward at the far end of the pass, now emerging from the blizzard.

Gallus strained his eyes: there, like a row of fangs, stood a line of some forty Gothic spearmen strung across the end of the corridor, spears dug in, faces twisted into snarls.

Gallus growled through gritted teeth, him and Felix flanking Tarquitius and Salvian. There was only one hope, he realised, noticing the spear wall was only one man deep and there was a definite gap between two men in the centre. A sloppy spear wall indeed.
Oddly sloppy,
Gallus reasoned, before washing the thought from his mind. He lifted his spatha and pointed to the opening.

‘Ready yourselves. Stay together. Ride for the centre . . .
charge!
’

Pavo and his fifty were pressed flat against the base of the mountainside, and the blizzard battered them relentlessly. Crito and Sura stood nearest to him. He risked poking his head out to survey the scene again. The two sentries remained holed up in sheltered crevices about twenty feet up the mountainside. There was no way his fifty could cut across the opening of this pass without being sighted, he realised, unless the storm thickened enough. But even then his men were exhausted – would they be fast enough to steal across in time?

Then a distant Gothic war horn moaned from the far end of the pass.

The fifty suppressed gasps at this. Then Pavo noticed something move on the far side of the pass entrance – beside a small, dark cavern opening, partly concealed by another rock pile. He squinted to see what had moved, then froze as a line of Gothic spearmen filed from the cavern. They were armoured in conical helmets and red leather cuirasses, wore furs around their shoulders and carried tall spears and round wooden shields.

‘Mithras!’ Crito growled, craning over Pavo’s shoulder as the spearmen formed up in a line across the entrance to the pass.

‘They’re readying to keep someone out?’ Sura chattered, glancing in trepidation to the east. ‘The Huns?’

‘No, they’re facing into the pass?’ Pavo replied, frowning. ‘They’re trying to keep someone
in
.’

Then the spearman at the end of the line barked, and the two at the centre of the line looked at each other, frowning. Their commander barked again and the pair grudgingly took a deliberate half step away from each other. This left a gap of a pace between their shields, while the rest of the line stood, shields rim to rim. Pavo frowned.

‘They’re not trying very hard – a cavalry charge could easily break through that centre,’ Sura said, reflecting Pavo’s thoughts.

‘Sir, now’s our chance!’ Crito hissed, jabbing a finger up to the two sentries above; both had also turned away to face into the pass, bows lifted, arrows nocked.

Pavo nodded, then turned to the fifty and hissed; ‘On my word!’ He glanced round once more, then raised a hand. ‘Now!’

As soon as the order was given, the statue-still fifty came to life like an iron centipede, snaking through the snowdrifts. When they were almost halfway across, the blizzard howled with a newfound ferocity, battering them from the east. Pavo turned his face away from its wrath, towards the pass. Through slit-eyes, he saw the line of Gothic spearmen and what looked like a distant blur of Gothic horsemen filling the pass behind, racing towards the spear line. But in between were – the breath stilled in his lungs –
Gallus, Felix, Salvian, Tarquitius!

‘Turn and face!’ Pavo bellowed. ‘Prepare to engage!’

The fifty spun to face the pass, startled, as the fleeing Roman horsemen raced for the Gothic spear line.

Salvian burst through the weak centre of the Gothic line, swiping a dagger down at the throat of the nearest warrior, who pirouetted, blood jetting from his jugular. Gallus and Felix heeled their mounts into a jump, the hooves of their beasts bursting the skulls of two more Goths. Then Tarquitius trundled through the hole that was rent in the line.

They had broken clear of the trap, but outside the pass, Tarquitius whipped at his mount with a cane, terrifying the beast and spurring it into a wild gallop. The beast charged forward and then foundered in the deep snowdrifts. In one flurry of hooves and whinnying, it stumbled, snapping a leg and crashing into the path of the other three. All four riders were hurled into the snow. Behind them, the Gothic spearmen had turned and closed ranks, while the mass of Gothic cavalry rumbled up to join their kinsmen. As one, the Gothic warriors advanced.

Pavo saw that they would be on top of Gallus and the Roman riders in moments. ‘Forward, double-line, quick march!’ He roared.

At first, the recruits hesitated, eyes wide in panic.

‘Forward, as one. Stay together and we can face them down!’ He cried.

At this, the veterans echoed Pavo’s call, and the recruits were jolted into action. The fifty clutched their spears and shields with frozen hands, and shuffled into a line, two deep. Then they ploughed as best they could through the waist-deep drifts. They spilled around Gallus, Salvian, Tarquitius and Felix like a shield. Then Pavo raised his sword, just as he had seen his superiors do time and again, and called out. ‘Plumbatae, ready!’

The vexillatio rippled, each man unclipping one of the three weighted darts from the back of his shield and holding it overhead.

Pavo squinted through the snow, seeing that the Goths would rush into range in a few more paces, then he roared; ‘Loose!’ The pack of missiles arced through the blizzard, and Pavo steeled himself for the crunching of bone that would follow.

But the plumbatae thudded down harmlessly into the snowdrifts, a handful of paces before the Goths who had stopped dead in the mouth of the pass. The men of the vexillatio looked on, stunned, as the Goths remained there, glaring.