Legionary: Viper of the North (9 page)

He turned to Felix. ‘You think he will be ready for them?’

Felix nodded. ‘Zosimus? Aye, ready and eager, as always.’

Gallus turned back to the valley. ‘Then send up the fire signal.’

A felled spruce trunk was balanced precariously on the eastern ridge of the valley. Behind it, Centurion Zosimus lay prone in the frozen grass. He shivered as he chewed on a strip of salt beef, then rubbed at his anvil of a jaw, numb from the cold, then wrinkled his battered nose as he watched the mouth of the pass.

Still nothing
.

The forty men of his century lying alongside him had remained quiet in this frozen wilderness, but he could sense their frustration growing. He glanced across to the opposite ridge and the spruce trunk balanced there; the other forty of his century behind it were no doubt grumbling unchecked over there.

Then his optio, Paulus, broke the silence. ‘If the tribunus is wrong about this, sir, we could be waiting here all day in the frozen grass,’ he mused, squinting up at the winter morning sun, scratching at his bearded chin.

‘The tribunus is never wrong,’ Zosimus cast his optio a dark look. He waited until Paulus’ features paled, then grinned; ‘or so he would have you believe.’

Paulus reflected his centurion’s grin.

Zosimus sighed. ‘Look, I know how you’re all feeling: I can barely feel my own arse anymore, but here, pass this around,’ Zosimus lifted up his wineskin, then fell silent, realising it was already empty. His face fell into a scowl once more as he threw it down, then muttered; ‘I just hope Fritigern appreciates all we’re doing for him. Marching around a bloody frozen Hades to catch the men his lot should be dealing with . . . ’

His words trailed off when an orange streak sped into the sky from the plains beyond. Then his eyes grew wide as they fell from the fiery missile to the cluster of Gothic riders who had raced into the valley, blonde locks billowing in their wake.

‘Ready yourselves,’ he batted a hand across Paulus’ chest, scowled along the forty who lined the ridge with him, then waved the other hand at those on the opposite ridge. He grappled at the felled spruce trunk that lay before them, his fingers blue and numb as he searched for purchase. Then, as he and his men took the weight of the timber, he hissed to them; ‘Push!’

The Gothic riders raced along the valley floor at pace, and the log seemed determined not to crest the ridge of the valley. He growled, his trunk-like arms shuddering and his boots gouging frozen earth from the ground until, finally, the weight of the log was gone. He and his men rushed onto the lip to see the logs from either edge hurtling down the valley sides, converging on the path of the rebel riders.

The Gothic riders noticed when they had only moments to react. Some leapt clear of the logs, some mounts reared up and their riders fell to the ground, others pulled up short and hurled their riders forward. Those caught in the path of the colliding logs were shattered like kindling; pained whinnying, screaming and the snapping of man and animal bones echoed through the valley.

Before they could reform, Zosimus swept his sword over his head, racing down the hillside at the head of his men.

‘Charge!’ He roared.

‘Yes . . . yes!’ Gallus growled, the bitter chill rushing past him as he sped forward at a gallop into the valley. His eyes were fixed on the form of Centurion Zosimus; the big Thracian was leading his century like a lion, silhouetted in the morning sun. The screaming of iron upon iron rang out and the stench of spilled guts was rife.

He flexed his fingers and gripped on his spatha hilt again and again, casting an eye back over his shoulder to see that the hundred and sixty of the first century were not far behind. The jaws of the trap were swinging shut. The truth lay within his grasp.

‘Bring them forward, in formation!’ Gallus bawled.

‘Aye, sir!’ Felix roared, dropping back to the right of the approaching line of legionaries. Then, when they were less than a hundred paces from the skirmish, he roared; ‘Plumbatae! Ready!’

At once the line rippled, each man presenting one of the three rapier-tipped darts clipped to the rear of their shields. ‘Loose!’ The pack of Gothic riders was shattered as the Roman hail streaked through the air and smashed into their midst.

‘That’s it! Break them!’ Gallus cried as a second and third volley were loosed. ‘Now, Felix, with me!’ He roared, heeling his mount into a charge to speed ahead of the rushing legionaries.

He and Felix raced into the flank of the pack of Gothic riders where two of them were hacking at one of Zosimus’ bloodied legionaries. The nearest of the riders, a fiery-bearded man, swept the legionary’s head clear of his shoulders, then turned, growling, just in time to parry Gallus’ strike. Gallus swivelled in his saddle and flicked his spatha up to grasp it overhand, then stabbed down through the Goth’s collarbone. Blood jetted from the wound and the Goth’s angry grimace melted into a grey, empty stare in moments as he slid from his mount like a sack of wet sand.

Then a longsword swept past Gallus’ face, scoring his cheek. His counter-swipe at the attacking Goth fell short due to his mount shuffling back from the fray.
To Hades with this
, he snorted, then slid from the saddle.
This is where the legionary fights,
he affirmed as his boots hit the ground. Then a familiar misty red veil descended over his vision as he slotted onto the end of the approaching legionary line, raising his shield.

‘At them!’ He bellowed.

The cold seemed to fall away as the legionary line smashed into the Gothic riders. He hacked, stabbed and parried. All around, he saw his comrades fighting, teeth bared, the whites of their eyes bulging. Then he saw one Gothic warrior, nearly as broad as he was tall, grinning like a demon as he drove his longsword through the throat of a legionary. Gallus growled and lunged for the man, sending a left hook smashing into the giant’s jaw. The big man turned to face Gallus, but stumbled on the severed leg of a legionary. Crunching back onto the gore-coated ground, the giant scrabbled backwards on his palms and Gallus stalked after him, spatha raised to strike.

The big Goth brought his longsword up with a roar, parrying Gallus’ strike. Then he used the moment of respite to stand tall once more, and a terrible grin split his scarred features as he came at the tribunus. A sideswipe with the giant blade came within inches of hacking Gallus’ face off, and suddenly the tribunus was on the back foot.

Gallus ducked another swipe of the blade, wincing at the crunch of bone as it took the top off a less fortunate legionary’s head. The big Goth stamped forward through the grey mush that toppled from the stricken soldier’s skull, then hefted his blade up with two hands and hammered it down at Gallus. The tribunus could only hold his spatha horizontal to deflect the blow, sparks showering and scorching his cheeks as he fell back. Prone, he could only watch as the Goth raised the longsword again for a death blow.

Then, with a flash of iron, the Goth’s severed head thudded onto his chest. The giant’s body still stood, sword aloft in two hands, blood pumping from the stump that was his neck. A hand grasped the Goth’s shoulder and pulled the body back, where it toppled to the ground, legs and arms thrashing. Zosimus stood there, brushing his hands together. The roar of battle died all around him as the last few Goths were slain, and one was barged to the ground and disarmed.

‘Job done, sir,’ the big Thracian panted, offering Gallus a bloodied forearm.

‘Not yet,’ Gallus clasped a hand to the centurion’s forearm and hoisted himself to standing. The blood was still pounding in his ears and he could only hear his men’s victory cries as a dull ringing. Then he turned to see Felix cupping the last surviving Goth by the jaw, frowning. ‘But if Mithras is with us we’ll get to the bottom of this rebellion. Let’s hear what this cur has to say.’

‘Seems Mithras has played a cruel joke on us, sir,’ Felix said dryly. ‘This one won’t be talking.’

Gallus frowned at Felix, then turned to scrutinise the Goth. The man was smiling, but his eyes burned like hot coals, and he clutched a rolled up piece of dark-green hide in his hand, shaking it as if in victory. Then his smile grew until hoarse laughter poured from his lips. Gallus recoiled at the sight of the blistered stump that remained of his tongue. ‘What in Hades?’ He shot a glance to Felix.

Then, as quickly as the man had started laughing, his face fell into a grimace and he pulled the tip of a plumbata from the hide roll and then leapt for Gallus. Gallus jinked to one side, pulled his spatha from his scabbard once more and swept it up, across the Goth’s chest, smashing his rib cage. The man fell to the grass, greying, his eyes growing distant, but fixed on Gallus. Gallus looked to the man, then to each of his legionaries, then to the dark-green banner that unfurled on the ground before them to reveal an ancient Gothic banner.

From the centre of the banner, an emblem of a writhing viper stared back at them.

The orange of dawn cast long shadows across the marching camp, set upon a rise in the plains of Gutthiuda. Gallus eyed his men as they tucked into steaming bowls of millet porridge; uninspiring at any other time, the slop was going down like freshly baked pheasant now. But while his men filled their groaning bellies and warmed their blood, he hadn’t eaten properly for two days. An irksome voice insisted he sit and eat with his legionaries, but a sense of unease about this whole mission just wouldn’t allow him to comply.

Once again his gaze was drawn northeast, to the looming grey wall that was the Carpates Mountains. Then he turned his gaze down to the banner and the viper emblem, then sat on a log and rubbed his temples; there had to be an answer to this riddle. Yet numerous vexillationes were out here chasing that answer, and the longer they were out here, the longer the major crossing points on the Danubius were left weakened.

He picked up a twig and began tracing out the river in a patch of earth, marking the XI Claudia fort and the town of Durostorum, then the next nearest major fort some seventy miles to the west. Then he moved the twig back to Durostorum and traced a thin line across the river to represent the accursed pontoon bridge.