Legionary: Viper of the North (44 page)

His mind had ploughed over the same jumble of thoughts time and again, and night had come and gone like a passing shadow, with no conclusion to his ruminations. He was sure of only what he saw around him; this smattering of blood-encrusted, wounded and weary men was all that was left of the XI Claudia. After yesterday’s desperate fight at the bridge over the Beli Lom, the nine survivors had wasted no time in hobbling northwards for the beech forest, eager to escape the killing fields. Once under cover of the trees, few had spoken; many simply scouring the woods for a source of water and a place to make shelter. Indeed, many had remained mute until they had found this brook, where they had crumpled to their knees and slaked their thirst like dogs.

‘Like dogs!’
Gallus snorted. ‘For that is what we have become!’

Over the rest of the day, bloodied bands of legionaries had stumbled across their path, some from the XI Claudia and some from local forts and waystations, all sacked and put to flame, apparently. So much had been lost in a single day of Gothic fury. Again, the image of the carpet of dead on the ridge flitted across his thoughts; those citizens and legionary staff who had looked to him as their saviour. Then his thoughts settled on the face of the one he had come to know best of all;
Salvian
.

He screwed up one fist upon feeling pity snake into his heart.
Stay focused,
he chided himself,
fret over only that which you can change.

He rubbed at his jaw, spiky with stubble. Including the stragglers, there were now less than forty men at his disposal, and he had lost count of the number of times he had thanked Mithras that one of them was a capsarius. The man had prepared dressings and salves as best as he could, using leaves and roots as a substitute to his normal range of medicines. Yet, despite the man’s best work, Gallus was sure that many of those forty would not rouse from their sleep, their wounds being distinctly grave.

He stifled a groan as he stood, his limbs stiff and weary, then placed his helmet on his head, and walked for the edge of the clearing. As he crunched over the bracken, a salmon leapt from the waters of the brook; the plentiful supply of food in these woods was one minor blessing for his small group, he mused wryly, the gentle turn of the season into spring being the other.

He decided to walk upstream, his thoughts churning again. Which Roman cities and settlements still stood? If they had not been besieged already, then surely the nearby coastal citadel of Odessus and port town of Tomis would come under Fritigern and Ivo’s gaze today. And the border legions, or what was left of them; would they have gathered, would they already have joined together in preparation for some counter-offensive, or at least in some attempt to contain or track the Gothic hordes?
Of course they won’t,
he cursed inwardly.
Some of those tribuni would make Lupicinus appear brave and noble in comparison.

Then something caught his eye. There, just ahead, was a trail through the forest, and the path seemed to be speckled with something, the colour of sand. Curiosity piqued, he stalked towards the trail, crouching, scanning the undergrowth in suspicion. Pushing through the foliage, the fullness of the trail was revealed, and his heart sank. The yellow grain that speckled the forest floor contrasted starkly against the charred remains of the rest of the grain column and their cavalry escort; crumbling, black timbers were mixed with charred flesh and the blackened bone of man and horse. Numbly, he squatted near one pile of grain that had survived incineration, lifting it in his filthy hands, letting the crop spill slowly through his grip. Nearby, he recognised the Chi-Rho necklace looped around the neck of one charred and arrow-pocked skeleton. It was the rider, Gunter.

So salvation and a continued peace had been barely a handful of miles from reaching Marcianople.

He thought of the forged scroll that had drawn the Goths here. He saw the face of poor Erwin the Goth, his tongue sliced from his mouth when he could have unmasked the devil behind these events – the one who bore the mark of the Viper. Fury boiled in his chest, and the name echoed through his thoughts as he saw the grinning, scarred features in his mind.

Ivo!

He threw down the rest of the grain with a roar, then sucked in breath after breath to calm himself.

Perhaps this was it, he mused. Perhaps it was the end of it all; the empire, his ideals, his self-imposed solitude, encased in iron at the head of the ranks. ‘I will be coming for you soon, Olivia,’ he spoke in a low tone. Then he squared his jaw, trembling.

‘But first, Ivo will die for what he has done.’

Pavo felt warm and comfortable in his fresh tunic, sitting by a fire in a small cave. His wounds were dressed and cleaned and his belly was full of meat and wine. He looked around, confused, unable to remember how he had got here. Then a figure entered the cave and sat opposite him, breaking bread and offering half.

‘Salvian?’

The ambassador nodded with a half-grin and then he sat. They munched the bread in silence, and Pavo shot frequent, furtive glances at the ambassador. A wriggling doubt told him this was not real, though he so much wanted it to be. Then he noticed that the fire was dimming. Salvian was brushing his hands of breadcrumbs as if readying to leave. Pavo knew he had to say something, but what?

‘Don’t go,’ he said at last.

‘I must, lad.’ Salvian shook his head. ‘For a shade cannot walk in the land of the living.’

Pavo felt sorrow thicken his throat. Then he felt a stinging on his bicep and looked to see that the wound was there after all, dirty and seeping blood. He frowned, then noticed that his skin was filthy, his tunic torn, and his belly once again groaned with hunger.

His head dropped. This was not real.

As Salvian stood to leave, Pavo stared into the dying fire.

‘I will avenge you,’ he said without looking up.

Then he felt the phalera on his chest tingle. It grew hotter and hotter until it burned like fire on his skin. Startled by this, he roared, pulling the leather strap from his neck and hoisting it to throw it to the ground. But then he stopped, realising it had grown cool again. More, Salvian was gone.

And the phalera reflected the last of the dimming firelight, casting a faint orange glow on the spot where the ambassador had stood. Something lay there in a heap; delicate, translucent and smooth.

Something lifeless.

Slowly, Pavo plucked the dagger from his belt, then reached over to it, eyes fixed on . . .

‘Pavo!’ A voice called out.

Like a stone dropping into an icy pond, he was wrenched from his slumber. Panting, he realised he was sitting bolt upright on the clearing floor, arms outstretched, his dagger extended in one hand. He glanced around to see Sura by his side, frowning.

‘Bloody Mithras, Pavo, I thought you had lost your mind,’ Sura hissed, wrenching the dagger from his friend’s grip. ‘Stick to the normal nightmares, eh?’

Pavo looked around, blinking. It was dawn and all around him the rest of the legionaries, bar the few on sentry duty, lay in exhausted slumber nearby. This was reality. The legion was all but gone and Salvian was dead. And Felicia?
Mithras tell me she escaped!

He wriggled from his blanket, then shuffled to the brook at the edge of the clearing. There, he peeled off his tunic, then stepped into the waters gingerly. He shuddered as he cupped water from the stream and bathed his wounds in it, at last washing off the crusted blood. Then he braced himself and ducked under the surface, the shock tearing away any traces of grogginess. Bursting clear of the surface, he scooped water over his bristly scalp again and again. Parts of the dream began to fade from his thoughts with each scoop – even the lifeless thing on the cave floor. But his last words to Salvian echoed endlessly.

I will avenge you.

He stared into the rippling waters as he mouthed the words, seeing the foul grin of Ivo in his mind’s eye. And behind the giant warrior, he saw the rippling, dark-green cloaked figure, there and not there at once. Hatred built in his heart, and his teeth ground together like millstones.

He was only ripped from the memories by the snapping of twigs near the edge of the clearing. Gallus had pushed through the trees, his face set in a baleful grimace.

He looked to Pavo and Pavo looked back.

‘Gather your weapons, legionary, and rouse the rest of the men. It is time to catch a snake.’

Pavo looked around the circle of Romans. They sat around the smouldering remains of the fire, bellies full after a meal of rabbit meat then porridge, washed down with cool streamwater. While eating, they had watched as Gallus crouched by the fire, tracing lines on the forest floor with a twig to clarify their position – miles northeast of Marcianople and far from any other major Roman settlement. Having established this, the tribunus then moved on to rally his men with his plan.

‘So we could flee like scolded dogs to the south, behind the walls of the cities. There we might be safe for a short time . . . but Ivo will not stop.’ The tribunus let this last statement hover in the air as he eyed each of the men. ‘When a viper slips through the grass, readying to strike, you must skirt around it, unseen, then cut off its head,’ the tribunus slapped the edge of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘The Gothic invasion was spawned by one man, and it can only be stopped with that same man’s demise. Ivo must die.’

Pavo’s brow furrowed at this, and his mind conjured up the image of that shadowy, green-cloaked figure that had appeared on the plain. What if Ivo was not actually the head of the snake? His heart needled with a desire to interject and remind Gallus of this, but what was there to work on, other than these fleeting and insubstantial sightings? And earlier, when Pavo had put forward his suspicions while the men roused, Gallus had been insistent that Ivo was the key to it all. No, he affirmed; they had been chasing the myth of the Viper for too long. Gallus was right, Ivo was the living, breathing enemy that they could seek out and bring down. He looked around the other legionaries to see their reactions to the proposal.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but what you are proposing is almost certain death for us all,’ Crito spoke out, breaking the silence.

Gallus cocked one eyebrow, then cast his flinty glare around the other men. ‘Aye, that it is. Ivo’s blood will not come cheaply.’

Zosimus cast an uncertain glance to the veteran of Lupicinus’ centuries, then curled his bottom lip and nodded as if in concession. ‘To wander into the midst of some hundred thousand Goths unseen. By Mithras, sir, we’ve been through some scrapes together, but . . . ’