Legionary: Viper of the North (42 page)

Gallus’ words trailed off as he felt it; the ground was rumbling beneath them. He twisted round as he ran.

‘Mithras, no!’ Felix hissed, sharing the glance back to the grassy rise.

A dust plume billowed from the plain they had just left, then a wing of some one hundred Gothic cavalrymen burst over the rise, the lead rider carrying a billowing banner bearing the mark of the Viper.

‘Make for the bridge, break ranks!’ Gallus cried.

At this, the legionaries afforded only a heartbeat of confusion before they turned and saw what was coming for them. At once, the column disintegrated and the men ran, throwing down remaining shields, spears and helmets. To a man they knew that to be caught in an open plain, outnumbered by cavalry meant certain death.

Gallus twisted to look back as he ran. The cavalry had closed in on them, only a quarter-mile behind. He could now see their red leather cuirasses, conical helmets and their spears, pointing for the sky. Then, on the jagged bark of the cavalry commander, the iron tips were lowered in one fluid motion for a charge. Gallus glanced over his men; they would never reach the bridge in time, he realised. He dropped back to the aquilifer at the rear; the man was struggling for breath. Gallus clutched the silver eagle standard and wrenched it from the man, who refused to release it at first.

Gallus hissed at him. ‘Your honour is intact, man, give me the eagle, and get yourself to that bridge. Go!’

Gallus spun to face the Gothic cavalry, and staggered back on seeing them only twenty paces away, at most. The riders bore the rapacious grins of men who knew victory and an easy slaughter was theirs, their blonde locks billowing, their mounts frothing, glistening with sweat from the charge. He felt a twinge of an old feeling, terror, then swatted it away like a mayfly. With that, he lifted the standard and waved it to the treeline either side of the plain. The lead Goth roared out a baritone war cry, training his spear on Gallus’ throat. Gallus closed his eyes and searched for memories of Olivia.

Then, a thick twang rang out, and at once, the trees either side of the plain spat forth a ferocious hail. Gallus opened his eyes just in time to see the Goth before him being punched from his mount by one of the missiles, body broken like clay, a cloud of crimson puffing on the spot where he had been saddled. All along the Gothic cavalry line, riders and mounts were swept from their course by the flanking fire of ballista bolts.

‘Mithras bless the ballista!’ He roared, then grappled the reins of one riderless horse and swung up onto the saddle. Galloping for the bridge, he lay flat along the beast’s back and twisted to see the Gothic charge falter under the ballista hail, horses stumbling over the fallen, riders reining their mounts in. He reached down to pluck the struggling aquilifer up by the scruff of the neck, hoisting the man into the saddle behind him.

‘Excellent idea, sir!’ The aquilifer cried.

‘Don’t get too excited yet,’ Gallus growled, just as the rhythmic twang of the ballistae slowed, then stopped.

‘Why have they stopped?’

‘The ballistae are out of range,’ Gallus confirmed with another glance back; the Gothic cavalry had been thinned, maybe by half, but now the charge was on again and they would still sweep over the legionaries before they reached the bridge. He turned to face forward again, and pointed to the mass on the far side of the bridge with the hemp cloth upon it, ‘but that one most certainly is not!’

‘Sir?’ The aquilifer frowned.

Gallus ignored the man’s confusion and roared to the far bridgehead. ‘Ballista crew! Ready yourselves!’

Heeling his mount, he kept his eyes trained on the hemp-covered device, waiting for the four legionaries he had left to man the giant ballista to burst from the undergrowth, or leap out from behind it. He had been clear with his orders when he had posted them here on the march to Marcianople.
Keep watch on the bridge from the trees, and be ready to man the device if the Goths turn to war.

Instead, four topknotted Gothic spearmen scrambled from a beech thicket near the device, then tugged the hemp cloth away, and readied themselves to fire.

Gallus pulled on his mount’s reins in horror. The ropes on the device were taut, the weapon loaded. Only now could he see the faint trace of red in the grass around the bolt-thrower, the last remnants of the four poor sods he had left there. Ahead of him, the column had stumbled into an impasse, glances darting from the onrushing Gothic cavalry to the giant ballista. Gallus searched for the orders that would make it all right. But there was nothing.

His heart froze as the giant weapon shuddered and, with a crack of thick rope releasing its furious tension, spat out its four bolts, each twice as tall as a man, with the girth of a young oak and a rapier-like head. A blur of bodies shot past him; three of his men, pinned together on one of the giant missiles which hurtled on across the plain for another hundred feet before ploughing into the earth. From the corner of his eye, he saw the other three missiles wreak similar destruction.

When the ballista fell silent, the crew started to load up the first of the next batch of four missiles. The Gothic cavalry had slowed from their charge, sensing victory. They closed up to form a crescent, penning the legionaries in to the bridge and the riverbank. Then they trotted forward, drawing their swords, eyes glinting as they beheld their kills.

Gallus shook off his momentary hesitation, slipped from the saddle of his mount and then waved the eagle standard. ‘Around me!’ He roared, pacing backwards from the noose of riders. The straggle of legionaries staggered over to stand with their tribunus, levelling what weapons they still carried. Behind him, he heard the clunk of the second ballista bolt being loaded into the device. This was it, he realised, anger boiling in his chest. His men would die, he would die. But he would die like a trapped animal, without honour. Then, the most innocuous of sights caught his eye as he glanced over his shoulder to check his men’s positions; a red squirrel scuttled across the underside of the timber bridge, terrified by the commotion. His spine tingled as a sliver of hope dawned on him.

‘I want two men. Good climbers!’ He hissed over his shoulder.

The men looked to him and to each other, terror and puzzlement etched on their features.

‘Sir?’ Zosimus croaked from behind the veil of gore on his face.

Gallus glared at the veteran centurion. Now was not the time for detailed explanations.

‘I’m in,’ a voice spoke.

Gallus turned to see the wiry form of Pavo. The young legionary was still bleeding from the wounds to his bicep and thigh, but his face was etched with a bitter determination.

‘I said, I’m in,’ Pavo repeated, taking off his helmet and tossing it to the ground along with his mail vest, shield and spear. Then he backed out of the tightly packed pocket of Romans.

Gallus saw the glint in Pavo’s eye, and the faint nod to the Goths busying themselves loading the third missile into the giant ballista. He was already up to speed with the plan. A sharp lad, Gallus thought, not for the first time.

‘Me too,’ Sura croaked. ‘Best climber in all Adrianople!’

Gallus eyed the pair, then nodded. ‘Get to it!’

As Pavo and Sura slipped from the rear of Roman cluster, down the riverbank to the water unseen, Gallus turned back to the Gothic cavalrymen. The one in the centre held Gallus’ glare and returned it with a smirk.

‘The land beneath your feet is now Gothic dominion, Roman!’ He spat. ‘You are trespassing on foreign soil.’ He raised his sword, his eyes narrowing. ‘Now you must be slaughtered, like vermin!’

With that, the Gothic riders rushed forth with a cry.

Gallus and the legionaries pushed together, shoulder to shoulder. He readied himself to leap for the big rider who had spoken, and his heart thundered like a kettledrum. He sucked in a breath and roared.

‘For the empire!’

Pavo turned from the skirmish and dropped from the lip of the riverbank, then skidded and slithered down the scree of the banking by the side of the bridge.

Every last one of those bastards will bleed their last today,
a voice in his head rasped as he saw only the image of that carpet of dead.
Salvian, you will be avenged!

The swirling rapids of the narrow river rushed up at him as he slid. When he clawed out to slow his descent, the stones bit into the flesh of his palms. Then, with a thud, his leading foot jarred against a boulder, and he was catapulted head over heels into the water.

The chill water numbed him instantly and his lungs seemed to shrink in shock as he thrashed, fully submerged. Then panic gripped his heart as the current dragged him downstream, away from the cover of the bridge. If the Goths on the opposite bank saw him, then the Roman ploy was doomed, and he would be target practice for their archers. He kicked down to find purchase against the riverbed, but there was nothing there, and the weight of his spatha was pulling at his belt like a rock.

Then something grappled at his collar and he was hauled out of the water like a fish.

‘Off to the coast for a break, were we?’ Sura grunted, pulling Pavo back to the bank.

‘Aye, something like that.’ Pavo shrugged Sura away with a frown. Then a bloodied legionary toppled from the bank just above, a crimson gash across his neck. Both of them looked at the corpse and then one another.

‘Let’s move!’ Pavo hissed. With that, he grappled one of the posts supporting the bridge, shimmying up then looping his legs around the diagonal beam that stretched out across the underside of the structure. His spatha dangled below him and he felt the beam bowing and creaking as Sura followed close behind, then he looked up; flitting between the gaps in the slats of timber, he could make out the Goths loading the giant ballista. Then he heard the fourth and final ballista bolt clunk into place and his heart thundered.

He let go a few feet short of the opposite riverbank and splashed into the shallows. Then he scrambled up to the bridge side and ducked to peek over the timbers at the Goths; there were four of them, all built like oxen. Crucially though, they had all downed their swords, spears, shields and helmets to operate the huge bolt thrower.

‘Ready?’ Sura slapped a hand on his shoulder.

Pavo nodded hurriedly as the screaming of legionaries grew more frequent from the skirmish on the opposite bank. ‘Two each?’

‘Let’s go!’ Sura hissed. At the same time, the ropes of the giant ballista creaked and groaned as the Goths tensed the device for the next volley.

The pair scuttled out from the banking, looping round to come at the Goths from behind. Pavo slid his spatha from its scabbard silently, then leapt at the nearest Goth. The man spun at the last moment, his mouth agape. He managed to utter the first half of some Gothic exclamation, before Pavo sank his sword through the warrior’s shoulder, deep into his chest. ‘How does it feel, murderous whoreson?’ Pavo snarled, then placed a foot on the felled man’s shoulder and wrenched the blade free again, blood spurting from the wound.

The next Goth was stunned for a heartbeat, then scrambled to the pile of longswords nearby, but Pavo flicked his spatha up to grasp it by the blade, then hurled it at the warrior. The blade spun through the air and burst through the Goth’s chest.

Pavo didn’t wait for the man to fall, instead ripping his dagger from his belt and rushing to Sura, who had slain one Goth but was at an impasse with the last one. The pair’s swords were locked and Sura was trying in vain to headbutt the man despite the stark difference in height. Pavo roared. At this, the Goth leapt back, darted a glance over his slain comrades, then bolted for the trees.