Legionary: Viper of the North (23 page)

Then a war horn moaned twice. At this, the Gothic riders and the spearmen looked to one another, then cast nefarious grins out to the Romans. With that, they turned to walk and trot calmly back into the pass, vanishing into the blizzard.

The survivors of Pavo’s fifty fell from the square, panting, some laughing hysterically, others vomiting into the snow.

‘Why didn’t they come for us?’ Crito hissed. ‘They could have butchered us!’

‘Maybe they thought a legionary cohort might be waiting out here?’ Sura reasoned, squinting over his shoulder into the driving snow.

‘No. They were obeying orders,’ Pavo replied. ‘That double call from the war horn, and the gap in the spear line . . . something smells bad about this.’

His words trailed off as, over Crito’s shoulder, Pavo caught sight of Salvian. The ambassador was clutching at his shoulder where he had fallen from his mount. The sleeve of his high-necked tunic was stained with blood, and his face was wrinkled with pain.

‘Ambassador!’ Pavo gasped, rushing to Salvian’s side. ‘Capsarius!’ He yelled, seeking out the medical man of his fifty. Then he pulled at the neck of Salvian’s tunic. ‘You’re losing blood. Let me have a look.’

Salvian pushed him back, his face etched with agony. ‘No!’ He snarled.

Pavo balked at the ferocity in the man’s voice.

Salvian sighed and shook his head, a weary half-grin lifting his lips. ‘I’m sorry, lad, I didn’t mean to bark at you. It’s a simple scrape yet it hurts like Hades . . . but we must break clear of this place. I will bandage it later.’

Pavo shrugged and nodded, frowning. ‘Make sure you do. I’ve seen too many comrades die of what they’ve called simple wounds. But you’re right,’ he realised, the image of the Hun horde pushing to the forefront of his thoughts, ‘we must make haste from this place.’

He spun to locate Gallus. The tribunus was kneeling by his crippled stallion, whispering soothing words in its ear as he aligned his spatha blade over the beast’s heart. Then, with a rasping whinny, the stallion’s pain was ended.

Pavo moved to crouch beside Gallus. Then he spoke in a low voice; ‘Sir, I have to tell you something . . . ’

But the tribunus, still kneeling, was searching the pass with a narrow gaze, lost in thought. ‘Either Athanaric’s capriciousness has reached new levels, or something is gravely wrong.’

‘Sir, something
is
very wrong,’ Pavo started, his tone urgent. ‘While in Istrita, we saw . . . ’

But Gallus continued with his own musings, cutting him off. ‘He could have had us slain at any point when we were within his city walls. Yet he chooses to have the peace talks
then
attempts to cut our throats while we sleep. And now, at the last, he lets us slip through his fingers.’ He stood, shook his head with a sigh and cast his gaze all around. ‘And why . . .
why
do I feel as if we are being watched in our every step?’

The rest of the legionaries within earshot glanced around likewise, their eyes filled with fear at what might be out there in the blizzard. Then, from the east, a hulking shadow appeared in the wall of white, then hundreds more flanked it. To a man, the legionaries braced, breaths stilled in their lungs.

‘Did I miss the fight?’ A familiar gruff voice cried over the storm. Centurion Zosimus emerged from the whiteness, his legionaries jogging behind him, faces blue, armour stuffed with cloth for insulation. ‘We heard the war horns.’

Curses and gasps of relief rang out at the sight of the big Thracian and his men.

Pavo shook his thoughts clear of the distraction and turned back to Gallus. ‘Sir, In Istrita . . . ’

But Gallus was already striding through the snow towards Zosimus. ‘We can talk of Istrita when we are on the march,’ he called back over his shoulder.

Frustration welled in Pavo’s chest until he could maintain decorum no longer. ‘The Huns have marched on eastern Gutthiuda!’

The words echoed in the air, and all eyes turned to him. The only noise was that of the howling storm.

Gallus stopped and spun, then strode back to Pavo, gripping his shoulders, eyes wide. ‘Speak, soldier!’

‘The Huns have descended on Fritigern’s lands, sir. More of them than I could hope to count!’

‘Mithras, no! If they fall upon Fritigern’s lands then . . . ’

‘Then Fritigern will be forced onto the imperial borders,’ Pavo finished as Gallus’ eyes darted. ‘But the arrival of the dark riders is no coincidence, sir. The Chieftain of Istrita said that they were summoned from the northern steppes.’

‘Summoned?’

The legionaries had gathered round the pair in a tight circle now, hanging on every word.

‘The chieftain was delirious and rambling. I don’t know if his mind had deserted him, but he spoke of a shade. A shade who rides on the plains of Gutthiuda, cloaked and hooded in dark green. The one who leads the rebel Goths. The one who has summoned the Huns and supports their march on Fritigern’s lands . . . ’

‘The Viper?’ Gallus finished with a mirthless laugh.

Pavo frowned. ‘You have heard of this creature?’

‘I have heard only tales and rumour,’ Gallus spat, punching a fist into his palm, ‘much as you have; that this Viper is long dead. Yet it seems that entire peoples march for him. How can that be?’

‘Athanaric has had dealings with the Huns in the past,’ Felix offered, his brow etched with a frown. ‘My guess is that it is one of his minions – masquerading as this Viper?’

‘No, if you had seen the fear on the faces of the people of Istrita,’ Pavo shook his head. ‘This is no cheap ruse. Those villagers are certain that it is the shade of the Viper himself who is behind all of this – they say the Viper has manipulated Athanaric. And the rebel riders, they are devoted to the Viper’s banner.’

Gallus’ gaze fell to the snow, his eyes darting.

The blizzard roared over them, and each of them could offer no more.

Then Salvian spoke at last. ‘Out here we can find no answers. And if what you say is true, Pavo,’ he glanced around the wall of white in every direction, ‘then this land is even more treacherous than ever. We must make haste for the Danubius and imperial lands.’

‘Agreed,’ Gallus growled under his breath. Then he nodded to the aquilifer, who raised the snow-caked eagle standard. ‘Let us get out of this accursed land.’

With that, the tribunus filled his lungs;

‘Form up. Quick march!’

Chapter 10

It was noon and the snow fell thick and silently over the town of Durostorum and the XI Claudia fort. The streets of the town were bereft of the usual bustle of market day; instead, there was only the wall guard and a few brave souls shuffling around the streets, buying in what provisions were available. Every home glowed orange with firelight and near the centre,
The Boar and Hollybush
glowed brightest. The traditional vine leaves and ale stirring pole emblem by the door were smothered in snow. Inside, the place was dotted with customers and a muted chatter and crackling of a heaped log fire filled the place.

‘Tastes kind of . . . fruity,’ Avitus mused, squinting as he beheld the ale cup, smacking his lips together.

‘Fruity? It’s bloody ale! You’re the one who’s bloody fruity!’ Quadratus gasped, then roared in laughter at his own remark.

Avitus shrugged. ‘I just mean, well, you know how wine’s got flavour, well ale has too, if you think about it.’

‘That’s just it. I don’t think about it, I drink it.’ Quadratus jostled in mirth again.

‘Alright, alright,’ Avitus said, shuffling in his bar stool indignantly. ‘I’m just saying, that’s all. No harm in observing, is there? Besides, I’m not sure what I’d choose these days. Wine or ale. Wine’s got such a rich . . . ’

‘Ale,’ Quadratus said flatly. ‘It’s what my ancestors drank, it’s what I drink. Ale, every time.’

‘Fair enough,’ Avitus chuckled, supping his drink again. There was a definite note of cherries in there, but he decided not to bother mentioning this to Quadratus. Sighing, he felt the strength of the drink wash around his mind. This was the golden moment, the sense of elation during the first few drinks and before the mood changes and gradual loss of function that usually followed. It was also the short time in between sobriety and deep drunkenness when memories of times past would leave him be.

He glanced around the inn at the array of rosy-cheeked locals and the handful of recruits who were not on sentry duty that morning. Then he looked to Quadratus and realised how much he had missed times like this. Times when both of them were just good friends, drinking and sharing stories together. That was how it had been, he mused, in these last few years, ever since he had come east from Rome; they had shared a contubernium, marching, camping, eating and fighting together. Simple times and good times.

But things had changed when the contubernium had been broken up to repopulate the centurionate, which had been almost completely wiped out during the Bosporus mission. Zosimus, Felix and Quadratus had all been promoted to lead their own centuries and it had driven a wedge into the group. They could never share the same degree of camaraderie while on duty. And Avitus himself could never aspire to join the centurionate, just as he had explained to Gallus when the post had been offered to him; a mere optio could live out his days as just another face in the ranks, but a centurion’s name would be too visible – and then the past would find him, surely. He realised he was no longer smiling. The golden moment was over.

His mind drifted inevitably to the past and the dark times, to the stain on his soul: all those missions he had carried out in the provinces of the Western Empire for his shadowy masters, and that last mission they had tasked him with, sending him east. His only solace was that the Avitus that had been sent out east had died that day, or so his old masters believed. And that last mission had never been completed. Even now the contents of that last scroll brought a bitter gall to his throat. So he had chosen his path, and anonymity and fleeting friendships with those who passed through the ranks were to be his lot. If only that had been the end of the matter, he pondered with a scowl.

He shook his head clear of the thoughts, slapped a hand on his knee and forced a smile. ‘Right, another one?’

Quadratus held up a finger as he drained his existing cup, then slapped it down in the timber bar top. ‘Aaah!’ He wiped a hand over his moustache. ‘Yep, it tastes sweeter with every one.’ Then he frowned. ‘Still not fruity, mind.’

Avitus chuckled, turning to the barmaid and rummaging in his purse to produce two bronze folles. ‘Felicia, another couple of ales please?’

She looked up, her complexion milky-fresh, blue eyes sparkling and a smile beaming through ochre-stained lips. ‘Be right with you!’ She chirped, sweeping out from behind the bar with a tray of drinks for another table.

Avitus offered her a warm smile in return. Then the shadow of guilt passed over him, and he quickly turned away from her and back to Quadratus.

‘Lucky whoreson, that Pavo,’ the big Gaul grunted. ‘Seems she’s settled on him.’

‘Eh? Aye, for now,’ Avitus raised an eyebrow. Felicia had something of a rich history of involvement with men stationed at the fort. And he was pretty sure he knew why. He gazed into the crackling log fire, memories of that summer night coming back to him all too easily.

It was only a few months after he had sent false reports of his own death back to his western masters. He had been in the Claudia fort, heading back to the barrack blocks when he had noticed the young legionary, Curtius, creeping in the shadows. The lad was armed with a dagger, moving silently for the door at the end of the first barrack block. Avitus realised to whose quarters he was headed, and at that moment he understood that the boy was no mere legionary. His old masters had hired this lad to complete the mission that Avitus could not. The memory of what happened next stung like acid in his thoughts; the scuffle, the pleading, the hesitation, then the thrust of the dagger. For just a fleeting moment on that dark night, he had justified spilling one man’s blood over another’s, a logic he had never again understood. His usual justification to himself was that he had been young and foolish. ‘Old and foolish now,’ he muttered.