Viper of the North

Chapter 9

Pavo’s legs had numbed long before dawn. Now, past noon, the snow was thigh-deep in places and all around them was a wall of white. His face ached from the roaring, relentless blizzard that seemed to be pushing them back, willing them to stay out of Athanaric’s lands.

‘We have to shelter,’ Sura chattered.

‘We can’t,’ Pavo glanced around; he could see only a few feet in each direction, and still they hadn’t sighted the Carpates. Only the occasional groaning of the recruits that broke through the whistling storm told him the rear of the column was still there. He once again tried to orient himself, ever-fearful that they could unwittingly stumble right onto one of Athanaric’s hillforts, citadels or camps. Or even into the path of the Gothic Iudex’s horsemen, who would delight in an easy kill such as this.

‘The men are exhausted, we need to find a place to stop,’ Sura tried again.

Pavo shook his head, pulling his snow-coated cloak tighter. ‘If we stop, we freeze.’

‘Pavo,’ Sura said, gripping his forearm. ‘I know you want to lead us back to the river and the empire. I know you’re afraid you will fail them. But if we don’t seek out shelter. . ’

Pavo turned to him with his lips curled in a snarl, then his face fell as he saw his friend’s blue-tinged features and snow-coated eyebrows. At that moment, the blizzard changed direction. In the brief lull, he saw his column, shivering, chattering, stumbling like drunk men, minds numbed with the cold, their armour and cloaks almost all white with the clinging snow. He cursed himself for letting it get this bad.

‘Stop,’ he barked over the gale, then he caught sight of a pile of rocks thirty paces or so to their right. ‘We shelter from the winds behind those rocks and then we eat.’

But Sura shook his head and held up a hand, holding a finger of his other hand to his lips, eyes wide.

Pavo frowned at this latest contradiction. ‘What now?’

‘That is no mere rock pile,’ Sura said, leaning in to speak into Pavo’s ear.

Pavo turned to the rock pile and the breath stilled in his lungs; the blizzard changed direction once again and, like a huge white curtain being drawn back, the might of the Carpates was revealed, the rock pile lying at the base of the great mountains. And there, right where Sura’s gaze was trained, was a craggy corridor that led through the mountains. On either side, a pair of armoured Goths stood like inhuman sentinels on the face of the rock, tucked into nooks to shelter from the storm, shivering in their cloaks.

‘The road to Dardarus!’ Pavo whispered, his words carried away by the storm.

He turned to Sura, nodding towards the fifty. ‘Get them against the rock face. We cannot be sighted!’

The gates of Dardarus swung closed. Gallus, Felix and Salvian cantered through the snow and across the great plain alongside a cart laden with flax and an old man leading a line of donkeys. The crop fields they passed by were deserted, unworkable under the thick blanket of snow. The sky had clouded over, grey and bulging in places. A dark portent of a fresh snowstorm if ever there was one.

They had circled for what felt like an eternity near the gates, waiting on an opportunity to slip out with another party. Gallus had been sure he felt eyes watching them suspiciously when they finally tagged onto the trail of the flax cart. Now outside he wanted with all his heart to heel his mount into a gallop.

He looked ahead, to the opening of the rocky pass that would lead them away from Athanaric’s heartland. ‘This cart is headed for the farms. When we reach the mouth of the pass, we will be alone, and we will be challenged,’ he whispered to Salvian, nodding to the two spear-wielding sentries posted halfway up the rock face, guarding this end of the pass.

Salvian’s eyes were already upon the pair. ‘It’s all about perception, Tribunus. Those sentries will see a group of Gothic riders approaching, nothing more.’

Gallus shook his head. ‘Our garb will count for little as soon as they bark at us in their jagged tongue. I speak their language but I sound as Roman as they come; same with Felix.’ Then he turned to Tarquitius. ‘Senator?’

Tarquitius’ face was blue, his eyelids and nose coated in frost. ‘He. . he is a shade. . ‘ Tarquitius mumbled repeatedly.

Gallus frowned and looked to Salvian.

Salvian cocked an eyebrow then issued that now familiar half-smile of his. ‘It seems that my mentor is compromised. It is down to me to guide us home.’

They trotted through the snow, knee deep to their mounts in places, and the sky was almost black over the pass. Then the gaze of the two sentries fell upon them and the nearest one barked down a challenge.

Salvian calmly lowered his hood, taking care to ruffle his hair as he did so, pushing his locks out of the neat Roman style he wore them in. When Salvian replied, his accent was in perfect harmony with the sentry’s.

Gallus cast a furtive glance at Salvian and saw just what the ambassador had said the Goths would see: an unkempt, ordinary Gothic rider in shabby clothes. You sly dog, Gallus mused.

The sentry hesitated for a moment, then Salvian barked in an impatient tone, flapping a hand down the pass and then shrugging. At last, the sentry nodded for them to proceed.

The three moved into the pass, and almost as soon as they did so, the dark clouds to the west opened, pebble-sized clumps of snow drifting down in a thick fall.

Gallus felt elation in his veins, but noticed Salvian glancing back to the plain of Dardarus, frowning.

‘Ambassador?’

‘Be ready, Tribunus,’ he looked Gallus in the eye, ‘I sensed undue hesitation from those sentries. They were aware of something. . ’

‘The boy at the stables — perhaps he has. . ’ Felix started.

Then the wailing of a Gothic war horn filled the pass from the Dardarus end.

Felix and Gallus gawped at one another. Tarquitius was jolted from his frozen malaise.

‘Ride!’ Salvian roared, the words echoing along the pass.

At once, the four heeled their mounts into a gallop. The thundering of hooves was not enough to drown out the stretching of a hundred bowstrings, if not more, high above them. Then the creaking stopped, replaced by a growing hiss like a thousand asps. Gallus held his breath, wishing he had brought his helmet with him. Then, all around them and in the wake of their gallop, Gothic arrows thudded down from above, tips hammering through the frozen earth and shafts quivering in anger.

‘Split,’ Gallus roared over the whinny of his terrified beast, ‘ride as I do!’ The tribunus yanked his stallion’s reins, urging her to slice across the front of the other three, veering left and then sharply right in turn, staying just a half stride ahead of the clusters of arrows.

He glanced back to see Felix and Salvian, fortunately skilled riders, following suit without following his path exactly, and Tarquitius struggling to keep up at the back. Gallus grimaced and faced front again — the other end of the pass was still a good few stadia ahead. ‘Mithras, give us hope!’

Then, as if the God of the legions had heard his name being called, the wind in the pass grew to a powerful gust. The air around them thickened, not with arrows, but with driving, blinding snow. The arrow hail slowed, and the accuracy fell away as the trail through the pass was rendered invisible to the archers above.

‘It seems the Christian God is not all-powerful yet?’ Salvian panted through a wry half-smile.

Gallus lifted his dagger from his belt, then tossed the blade, hilt first, to Salvian, while Felix offered his blade to Tarquitius. ‘We’re not out of trouble yet and we must stay on our guard. I hope you can fight as well as you talk, Ambassador.’

Salvian cocked an eyebrow, eyeing the blade. ‘I hope so too.’

A dry chuckle escaped Gallus’ lips, but was cut short when the ground around them seemed to quake. From the Dardarus end of the pass, the roar and rumble of cavalry grew louder and louder.

The four shared a look of dread, then Gallus heeled his mount into a gallop for the far end. ‘Ya!’

Snatching glances over his shoulder, he saw the grey-white of the blizzard twist and turn. Then it stilled for just a moment to reveal Gothic riders; fifty of them, snarling behind spears, shields and helmets and haring in on them at full gallop.

‘They’re gaining on us, sir!’ Felix roared over the howl of the blizzard.

‘Here,’ Gallus snarled, pulling the pair of plumbatae he had clipped into his belt that morning, ‘slow them down with these.’

He heard Felix’s manic cackle over the tumult as the primus pilus loosed the weighted darts at their pursuers. With a pair of distant groans, two Gothic riders were skewered out of the equation.

‘Just the rest of them now, sir,’ Felix roared.

‘And those up ahead,’ Salvian cried, jabbing a finger forward at the far end of the pass, now emerging from the blizzard.

Gallus strained his eyes: there, like a row of fangs, stood a line of some forty Gothic spearmen strung across the end of the corridor, spears dug in, faces twisted into snarls.

Gallus growled through gritted teeth, him and Felix flanking Tarquitius and Salvian. There was only one hope, he realised, noticing the spear wall was only one man deep and there was a definite gap between two men in the centre. A sloppy spear wall indeed. Oddly sloppy, Gallus reasoned, before washing the thought from his mind. He lifted his spatha and pointed to the opening.

‘Ready yourselves. Stay together. Ride for the centre. . charge!’

Pavo and his fifty were pressed flat against the base of the mountainside, and the blizzard battered them relentlessly. Crito and Sura stood nearest to him. He risked poking his head out to survey the scene again. The two sentries remained holed up in sheltered crevices about twenty feet up the mountainside. There was no way his fifty could cut across the opening of this pass without being sighted, he realised, unless the storm thickened enough. But even then his men were exhausted — would they be fast enough to steal across in time?

Then a distant Gothic war horn moaned from the far end of the pass.

The fifty suppressed gasps at this. Then Pavo noticed something move on the far side of the pass entrance — beside a small, dark cavern opening, partly concealed by another rock pile. He squinted to see what had moved, then froze as a line of Gothic spearmen filed from the cavern. They were armoured in conical helmets and red leather cuirasses, wore furs around their shoulders and carried tall spears and round wooden shields.

‘Mithras!’ Crito growled, craning over Pavo’s shoulder as the spearmen formed up in a line across the entrance to the pass.

‘They’re readying to keep someone out?’ Sura chattered, glancing in trepidation to the east. ‘The Huns?’

‘No, they’re facing into the pass?’ Pavo replied, frowning. ‘They’re trying to keep someone in.’

Then the spearman at the end of the line barked, and the two at the centre of the line looked at each other, frowning. Their commander barked again and the pair grudgingly took a deliberate half step away from each other. This left a gap of a pace between their shields, while the rest of the line stood, shields rim to rim. Pavo frowned.

‘They’re not trying very hard — a cavalry charge could easily break through that centre,’ Sura said, reflecting Pavo’s thoughts.

‘Sir, now’s our chance!’ Crito hissed, jabbing a finger up to the two sentries above; both had also turned away to face into the pass, bows lifted, arrows nocked.

Pavo nodded, then turned to the fifty and hissed; ‘On my word!’ He glanced round once more, then raised a hand. ‘Now!’

As soon as the order was given, the statue-still fifty came to life like an iron centipede, snaking through the snowdrifts. When they were almost halfway across, the blizzard howled with a newfound ferocity, battering them from the east. Pavo turned his face away from its wrath, towards the pass. Through slit-eyes, he saw the line of Gothic spearmen and what looked like a distant blur of Gothic horsemen filling the pass behind, racing towards the spear line. But in between were — the breath stilled in his lungs — Gallus, Felix, Salvian, Tarquitius!

‘Turn and face!’ Pavo bellowed. ‘Prepare to engage!’

The fifty spun to face the pass, startled, as the fleeing Roman horsemen raced for the Gothic spear line.

Salvian burst through the weak centre of the Gothic line, swiping a dagger down at the throat of the nearest warrior, who pirouetted, blood jetting from his jugular. Gallus and Felix heeled their mounts into a jump, the hooves of their beasts bursting the skulls of two more Goths. Then Tarquitius trundled through the hole that was rent in the line.

They had broken clear of the trap, but outside the pass, Tarquitius whipped at his mount with a cane, terrifying the beast and spurring it into a wild gallop. The beast charged forward and then foundered in the deep snowdrifts. In one flurry of hooves and whinnying, it stumbled, snapping a leg and crashing into the path of the other three. All four riders were hurled into the snow. Behind them, the Gothic spearmen had turned and closed ranks, while the mass of Gothic cavalry rumbled up to join their kinsmen. As one, the Gothic warriors advanced.

Pavo saw that they would be on top of Gallus and the Roman riders in moments. ‘Forward, double-line, quick march!’ He roared.

At first, the recruits hesitated, eyes wide in panic.

‘Forward, as one. Stay together and we can face them down!’ He cried.

At this, the veterans echoed Pavo’s call, and the recruits were jolted into action. The fifty clutched their spears and shields with frozen hands, and shuffled into a line, two deep. Then they ploughed as best they could through the waist-deep drifts. They spilled around Gallus, Salvian, Tarquitius and Felix like a shield. Then Pavo raised his sword, just as he had seen his superiors do time and again, and called out. ‘Plumbatae, ready!’

The vexillatio rippled, each man unclipping one of the three weighted darts from the back of his shield and holding it overhead.

Pavo squinted through the snow, seeing that the Goths would rush into range in a few more paces, then he roared; ‘Loose!’ The pack of missiles arced through the blizzard, and Pavo steeled himself for the crunching of bone that would follow.

But the plumbatae thudded down harmlessly into the snowdrifts, a handful of paces before the Goths who had stopped dead in the mouth of the pass. The men of the vexillatio looked on, stunned, as the Goths remained there, glaring.

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!’