Legionary: Viper of the North (52 page)

‘Yes, sir!’ The pair barked.

They dismounted by the stables, Pavo patting his mare on the nose and feeding her a handful of hay. He surveyed the goings-on in the camp: siege engineers worked furiously to cobble together ballistae and onagers, their hands blistered and bleeding; smiths smelted and shaped spearheads, spathas and mail; fletchers piled quiverfuls of freshly-hewn arrows and bows by the archery range. Yet Pavo’s mind still dwelt upon those lonely hills and rugged mountains, two miles north.

‘Pavo,’ Sura slapped a hand on his shoulder, nodding to the goatskin awning nearby that offered shady respite from the blistering sun. Zosimus and Quadratus were sitting there, supping from their wineskins and munching on joints of charred and juicy meat. ‘Refreshments?’

Pavo nodded and followed his friend. But his mind was set on one thing and one thing only.

To Hades with the orders,
he affirmed.
Tomorrow
,
we ride into those hills until we find them! I’m coming for you, Felicia.

Chapter 23

Pavo hesitated for a moment, panting. His hands were bleeding and coated in grey dust and his neck was burnt from the sun. He eyed the peak of the mountain; a jagged limestone ridge some fifty feet up. Though it felt like it hadn’t got any closer for the last hour. Then his gaze locked onto a lone mountain goat stood near the peak, munching on a shrub, eyeing him with disdain. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the rock face.

‘Pavo, come on; we should have turned back long before now!’ Sura rasped from below. ‘The sun’s dropping.’

They had set off from the base of this, what had initially looked like a modest mountain in the Haemus range, at mid-afternoon, and not for the first time since then, doubt danced in Pavo’s mind. But again from the other side of the mountain a clash of iron rang out, along with cheering and a jagged Gothic rabble. Above the craggy limestone peak, woodsmoke plumed into the orange-tinged sky.

‘Then let it drop!’ He spat back, flushing the doubt from his thoughts. ‘I’m not turning back now; they’re right over that crest.’

‘And?’ His friend replied dryly, shooting nervous glances to the noise. ‘We need to get back, to alert the legions. If we are killed then the legions will never know the whereabouts of the Gothic camp!’

Pavo twisted round, a foul expression on his face. ‘You climb down and ride back, then, and report that Pavo is being a stubborn whoreson. But I’m not leaving until I’ve found her.’

Sura groaned and wiped his hands over his face. ‘Felicia? Look, Pavo, I’m with you in that I want to see her safe. But do you really think we have a chance in Hades of freeing her from the horde that lies in wait over that ridge?’

Pavo held Sura’s pleading gaze in silence. Then he drew his dagger, clamped the blade between his teeth, turned back to the rock face and scrambled on and up.

A groan sounded behind him. ‘Slow down, will you?’

He turned to see Sura scurrying after him, scowling.

‘I can’t leave you to get skewered, can I?’ Sura fumed. With that, the pair continued their climb.

They halted for breath momentarily when at last they reached the top of the mountain. There, a welcome, stiff breeze hit them from the east, ruffling Sura’s blonde locks and cooling Pavo’s freshly shorn scalp. After this brief rest, they stalked over to crouch behind a large limestone cairn and peeked over the top.

The land in the valley below was awash with Goths.

Soldiers carried piles of longswords, composite bows and armour, stacking them high, while others groomed their warhorses. It was coldly reminiscent of the Roman camp – except there were far more Gothic warriors. Amongst it all, families milled around, cooking stews, pleating hair, darning and scrubbing clothes. Pavo winced as he saw one Gothic woman washing a pile of robes in a barrel of water, her children tugging at her hem demanding she played with them; it was all too similar to the amber-haired Roman woman at the brook by Ad Salices, yesterday. Many innocents would die in what was to come.

Then an elbow jabbed his ribs. ‘I’d wager that that’s where you want to start looking,’ Sura growled, solemnly.

Pavo followed the line of Sura’s outstretched finger; the Gothic camp was so vast it spilled through the grey-green pillars of the mountains into the next valley, where a huddle of bedraggled Roman captives were being marshalled across the flatland towards a group of assembled wagons. His heart stilled as he saw the bald, stocky man who owned the wagons handing over a hefty purse to the Goths who herded the sorry figures.

‘Slave traders! Romans! Buying their own kind when the empire is crumbling around them!’ Sura gasped. ‘Have they no shame?’

Pavo bit into his lower lip as a bitter boyhood memory flitted through his thoughts; that day in the slave market in Constantinople when he himself had been paraded in front of nobles and senators like a cut of meat before that fat reprobate Tarquitius had bought him. The very idea of Felicia being subjected to some lecherous, abusive master sent a wave of fire through his heart.

Then Sura slapped a hand on his shoulder, jolting him from his thoughts. ‘Sentries! Get down!’

Pavo ducked, then peeked over the rock pile to see the Gothic spearmen dotted along the narrow, high mountain paths that wove around the camp. There were two every few hundred feet, and a tall and broad-shouldered pair were approaching the cairn. He sized their red leather tunics and conical helmets, his eyes narrowing as he noticed how the helmets shaded their faces. ‘Right, if they come this side of the cairn, they’re out of the line of sight of the rest of the sentries and we can take them. If they go the other side, we wait.’

Sura nodded, flexing his fingers on his dagger hilt.

The pair of sentries strolled closer, joking in their jagged tongue. Pavo readied himself to spring like a cat. But the sentries veered away from the cairn, staying within view of their people. He stifled a curse and dug his nails into his palms. He looked to Sura, then the dropping sun. Doubt laced his thoughts.

Then, an impatient snort from the mountain goat pierced the air. He held his breath; the banter of the two Goths had stopped dead. Then sharp words were hissed, laced with suspicion. Then footsteps ground on the dust either side of the cairn and they heard the sentries’ shallow breaths. Pavo looked to Sura, then they both nodded, each turning to an edge of the cairn.

The two sentries stalked past the stone pile, eyes wide, spears reaching out as they looked down the mountainside. One laughed, pointing to the goat, visibly relaxing. ‘Dinner!’ He bellowed. But the other Goth’s eyes were locked on the mare and gelding tethered far below. ‘Romans?’ He uttered, glancing around for the missing riders.

Pavo leapt at him, wrapping one arm around his neck. The pair fell onto the ground, entangled and thrashing. Pavo brought a sweet right jab down on the Goth’s cheekbone and the man’s head thudded against a sharp rock and he fell still. Then he spun to Sura, who was locked in a struggle with the other Goth, each of them wrestling for control of Sura’s dagger. Seeing Pavo come for them, the Goth forced the dagger towards Sura’s throat. But Sura flicked his head to the side and headbutted the man, who staggered back, dropping the dagger. Sura caught the weapon by the blade, flicked it over to grasp its hilt, then sunk it into the Goth’s heart.

Panting, Sura wiped his blade on the grass.

Pavo eyed the dead pair, then glanced left and right. His heart thundered as he saw two more sentries, only a few hundred feet away. He kicked grey dust over the spilled blood and in the dusk light it was disguised, but the corpses lay stubbornly before him. He glanced around; down the mountain, near the troublesome goat, an outcrop of limestone offered a slim chance to avoid detection.

He stooped and wrenched one Goth up and over his shoulder. ‘Grab the other one,’ he wheezed to Sura.

As the light faded in the mountain valley, Felicia watched the latest slave cart depart. It was packed with Romans, some nobles, some freedmen, all levelled to slaves now. She pulled at the filthy and frayed hem of her robe and eyed the two who stood before her in the line: a young lad and a pretty Roman woman. Then she would be next, she figured. Before dusk another cart would come and she would be taken away. Yet she cared little for her future. It was the memories of the past few weeks that consumed her every waking thought, and her chest still felt raw and hollow from weeping. She had set out to avenge her brother’s murder. Instead she had lost everything.

Everything.

She had fled the plain of Marcianople when it was clear the city would fall. Her mount was small but swift, enough to outride the handful of Gothic horse archers who had pursued her some of the way. Then, upon cresting the rise and entering the plain north of the city, she spotted the chain of thousands of Roman citizens – the refugees from Durostorum and all the northern towns. They were headed for the timber bridge across the River Beli Lom but they looked this way and that as if in search of a leader. Then, a rider on a jet-black stallion had burst over the ridge from the city to take his place at the head of the column. At this, the citizens had cheered. It was the ambassador, Salvian – Pavo’s good friend.

The man had immediately set about marshalling the column manfully with only a handful of legionary scouts, scribes and heralds to aid him. Hope had danced in her heart as she had raced to join the exodus. But then she had slowed her mount, seeing Salvian halt the rabble in the centre of the wide plain, a long way from the bridge. Then her veins had filled with dread as Gothic riders appeared from nowhere to encircle the refugees. She had barely been able to watch as Salvian stepped towards the lead rider, but she frowned when the ambassador wordlessly raised a hand and extended one finger. He had held it there for a moment, then swiped it down. As soon as he did so, the Gothic cavalry noose snapped shut. She had turned from the sight as the blades struck home and the screaming had started. Then, when she had heeled her mount round to flee the plain, the breath had stilled in her lungs: Salvian remained where he had stood, unharmed and watching the massacre. Then he had drawn a blood-soaked, dark-green cloak from his satchel and slipped it over his shoulders, raising the hood, before taking up a longsword and joining in the slaughter with the Goths.

Numb, she had fled from the plain at a full gallop and let up only when her mount was exhausted. Then she had hidden in a cave in the foothills, wary of the numerous columns of smoke in every direction and the distant din of battle that seemed to dance on the spring breeze. On the first night she had caught and skinned a rabbit, then roasted the animal over a small fire before devouring it and washing it down with streamwater. The next morning, she had readied to ride for Adrianople, to find Father, when a group of Gothic cavalry had thundered past her hideout, roaring gleefully, severed Roman heads mounted on their speartips like trophies. So she had hidden for another two days. Then, on the third day, the chaos across the land seemed to have lessened just a little. So she leapt on her mount and rode without pause until Adrianople came into view.