Viper of the North

Chapter 14

The first morning of April brought with it a bitter chill and a fresh snowfall across the plain of Durostorum, as if winter was determined not to be usurped by the overdue spring. A full month had passed since the arrival of Fritigern and his people and still more Goths had spilled onto the plain in that time, further stretching the meagre grain supplies. Amongst the sea of tents, the number of shapeless bumps in the snow had grown steadily as Gothic elderly and children perished from hunger and exposure. And as their families succumbed to the conditions, the warriors were growing ever more restless. Then, in these last few days, factions of them had called for Fritigern to break free of the camp and march south in search of food.

In the poor light afforded by the snowfall, Gallus stood at the northern end of the Gothic camp near a rudimentary goat pen. He eyed the corpse of a Gothic warrior — this one had certainly not succumbed to starvation. The body was half in the pen and half out, entrails stretched out across the snow, and all around him were the bodies of slaughtered goats. The stench was overpowering.

‘And they took the last of our grain!’ The old Gothic woman pleaded, cupping her hands together, her eyes wet with tears for her slain son. ‘And they were not driven to it from hunger. No, they carried the sacks to the riverbank then slit them, letting the grain fall and ruin in the waters. They want us to starve!’

Gallus sighed, his eyes tracing the trail of grain-speckled hoofprints in the snow to the riverbank and then to where they dissolved into the snowdrifts. Like shade riders. Absurdly fitting, he realised, clenching his teeth. He had now lost count of the number of attacks that had happened like this over the last few weeks, in the dead of night. He looked to the woman. ‘So tell me again, you say it was them?’

The woman nodded, choking back a sob. ‘Yes, the Viper’s riders! They mask their faces then strike in a pack, like wolves. Then they disappear into the night.’

At that moment, her elderly husband came from a nearby tent to stand by her. His expression was different; his eyes were darting and his lips thin, his demeanour agitated. ‘That’s enough, Oda, we cannot change what has happened.’

Gallus’ eyes narrowed.

The Gothic woman turned to her husband, frowning, annoyed. ‘Erwin! How can you be so. . calm!’ With that she broke down in a fit of sobbing, covering her face with her hands. Her husband held her to his chest as she shuddered with grief.

Gallus caught another furtive glance from Erwin the Goth. This man had something to say, he was sure of it. Then a wracking sob from Oda split the air.

Now was not the time.

He sighed and handed the old man a linen wrap. The bread loaf inside was the last one to have been fired in the fort ovens. ‘Fill your bellies. Your son would not want you to suffer. Perhaps we can talk later though?’

The man closed his eyes, nodding as he took the offering. Then Gallus turned to walk away.

‘Tribunus,’ Erwin called after him.

Gallus turned. The old man’s brow was now wrinkled, and there were no more snatched glances, his gaze locked on Gallus.

‘I am old now, but I. . ’ he paused, his gaze drifting into the dancing snowflakes, ‘. . I remember the atrocities the Viper committed. These night-slayings brought it all back to me. And then this,’ he gestured to his dead son’s torn body. ‘Fritigern may scoff at the idea of the Viper being at large amongst his people, but the threat is very real.’

‘You have something to tell me, old man?’ Gallus’ breath stilled and all his senses were primed.

Erwin’s jaw stiffened as he looked to his dead son and then back to Gallus. ‘Perhaps, Tribunus.’ Then the old man clenched one fist, hugging his wife closer, his eyes moistening. ‘But first, and for Wodin’s and Mithras’ sake, put an end to the equally foul behaviour of your legionaries!’

Gallus bit back on an instinctive response, for the man made a very valid point. Reports had been rife of Lupicinus’ men abusing their authority while policing the Goths; beatings, extortion and threats, all going unpunished as Lupicinus looked to demonstrate his authority over Gallus. Then, three days ago, the wife of a Gothic noble had been raped in front of her children by a comitatenses legionary named Ursus. The few hundred extra Claudia legionaries — the vexillationes that had escaped the turmoil in Gutthiuda and returned to the fort in these last weeks — would have to be put to work in policing Lupicinus’ men as well as the Goths, it seemed. He nodded sincerely to Erwin. ‘They are not my men, but I will do all I can.’

‘Then perhaps we will speak again,’ Erwin said, his gaze dark as he turned and ushered his wife into their tent.

‘Perhaps?’ Gallus replied even though he was alone in the swirling snow. ‘Most certainly, I would say.’

With that, he turned and strode from the pen to pick his way through the sea of tents on the snow-packed track that led back to the fort. His mind spun with thoughts of the Viper, of Lupicinus and his unruly centuries, of the Huns lurking north of the river. To add to these woes, imperial communications had fallen silent; Mithras alone knew how many or how few legionaries remained in the other limitanei forts up and down the river. Worse, there was still no word or sighting of the messenger, Ennius, despatched over a month ago to gather orders from the emperor. Without intervention from Valens, this situation could only get darker.

These troubles were plentiful enough to fill the minds of ten men, he mused, but it was the unseen presence of the Viper and his men that threatened to tip the balance and shatter the truce with Fritigern. The Viper’s riders seemed bent on driving the Goths to starvation. But they won’t suffer starvation for long, he realised, they will rise up. This is what the Viper seeks!

He looked up, and his gaze fell upon Salvian. The ambassador shivered under his cloak, blowing into his hands for warmth as he waited, holding the reins of his and Gallus’ stallions. The man could easily have washed his hands of this affair and rode south to Constantinople, or to the port cities where a ferry would have taken him home, no doubt to a luxurious villa in the capital. Instead, he had remained in the frozen north, and Gallus was glad of his company.

Gallus took the reins and gave Salvian a nod. ‘It appears that the Viper was at large again. Or at least his riders were.’

Salvian’s brow furrowed and he cast his eyes over the snow-capped timber watchtowers that had been constructed to demarcate the Gothic camp; the legionaries stationed in them had a clear sight of most of the plain, in daylight at least. ‘Then these riders must be within the Gothic camp, they must be,’ he spoke through chattering teeth.

Gallus cast a quick glance back to the tent circle of Erwin and Oda. ‘Perhaps we should appeal to Fritigern to question suspects?’

Salvian turned to him and pinned him with a sober gaze. ‘Unless you have something solid to put forward to Fritigern, any speculative arrests are liable to spark trouble. The Goths want to break from this camp and rampage south in search of food. The iudex is inches from crumbling to their will.’ Salvian mused over his own words and then nodded. ‘You need proof, Tribunus.’

‘Then it is simple,’ Gallus replied, ‘we will find proof.’

Thundering through the moonlit forest, east of Durostorum, Ennius and his stallion had both passed the stage of exhaustion, the mount frothing at the mouth.

The two week journey had been frantic, and the world had changed around him day by day. The air had turned cool and fresh on the ride to Trapezus. Then, on the galley to Tomis, it had grown bitter. Then, the white-cloaked land that he disembarked onto felt like another realm entirely from Antioch and the Persian front. At first he had been grateful of the cold as it soothed his chafed skin and weary limbs. Now, though, even his thick woollen cloak could not fend off the violent shivering.

But he was only a few miles away from the end of his journey. He longed to see the XI Claudia fort, to hand over the scroll. He could hear the praise ringing in his ears already, taste the ale in the inn, feel the warm comfort of his bunk. And then there was his promotion. His wife would be overjoyed and maybe, at last, they could afford to buy a small landholding where their two baby girls could grow up and his father could live out his days in comfort.

Inspired, he lifted the scroll from his cloak and kissed it, then clutched it tight in his grip and leaned flat on the saddle, heeling the beast. ‘Come on, boy, not long to go now. Ya!’

Focused on the last rise before he would break clear of the forest and onto the plain of Durostorum, he did not notice the figure lurking in the shadows by the trackside, hands cupped to the mouth.

Ennius heard a shrill bird call and frowned; it was the first note of birdsong he had heard since returning to this snowy land. He glanced over his shoulder.

Nothing.

He turned back to set his sights on home, when two dark figures darted from the trees ahead, a rope held across the track between them. Ennius’ eyes bulged and a scream caught in his throat as the two pulled the rope taut, lifting it so it caught Ennius around the chest and pulled him from his saddle. A sharp crack rang out as he tumbled, head over heels across the snow and bracken of the forest floor.

Then everything came to a standstill. Groggily, Ennius saw his panicked stallion gallop off into the distance. He struggled to sit up and glanced around; the two figures were nowhere to be seen. He saw the scroll beside him and gratefully snatched it up from the ground. He made to stand then buckled and collapsed again with a scream as white hot agony coursed through his left leg: a shard of pure white bone jutted from the shin, poking through his leather boot, and the lower shin and foot hung at an absurd angle. He twisted away and vomited.

Then footsteps crunched through the snow, right behind him.

Retching the last of the bile from his belly, Ennius looked up. Two Gothic spearmen grinned like sharks, their topknotted locks billowing in the chill breeze, features illuminated in the moonlight. Ennius clawed at the dirt, pulling himself away despite the agony of his leg. But then he froze, hearing the gentle clop of hooves just behind him.

He twisted round to see a figure, in a dark-green cloak and hood, face in shadow, mounted on a black stallion. One of the Gothic spearmen plucked the scroll from Ennius’ hand as he gawped at the dark rider.

‘This is what you wanted, Master?’ The spearman asked, holding up the scroll.

‘Indeed,’ the dark rider replied, pulling another, identically sealed scroll from his cloak. Then the shadows within the hood turned to behold Ennius. ‘Orders will reach the legionary fort, rider. Just not the ones you have carried all this way,’ he unfurled the original scroll, nodding as he read the contents. ‘No, this scroll will be little more than ashes in a matter of moments, as will you, Roman. As will your empire, before too long.’ With that, the figure raised one hand and extended a finger, then swiped it down.

Ennius gawped, fear stiffening him at once. Then he twisted back to the two spearmen just in time to see the nearest of them draw a longsword to hold it two-handed, then swing the blade towards his neck.

The forest echoed with Ennius the rider’s scream until it was abruptly cut short.

Moonlight illuminated the plain as Senator Tarquitius made his way from the fort back to his rented room in Durostorum.

‘What have I done?’ He raked frozen fingers over his bald pate, muttering to himself as he crunched through the carpet of snow, past the crackling torches and fires of the nearby Gothic camp. Then, on seeing a family of emaciated Goths walking towards him on their way to the camp, eyeing him nervously, he straightened up and cleared his throat to stride in his best senatorial fashion. But as soon as he had passed them, his shoulders slumped again and he rubbed at his temples.

He had been used, like a puppet, like a stepping stone. Again. Power had been dangled before him, like a carrot before a donkey, to lead him into this mess. All the expense, all the effort, all the lickspittle behaviour he had employed — all to ascend the ladder of imperial power. Yet it had all blinded him to the reality; he was the die in another’s hand. And if this Viper’s desires were to be realised, then there would be no empire. For the first time in so long he wanted to confide in someone, but he no longer knew who he could trust. And there were few if any who trusted him.

The men of the legion barely disguised their contempt for him, and Salvian, his protege, had seemingly sided with them. Then there was Pavo. His ex-slave glared at him like a demon every time their paths crossed. But I cannot tell him what he wants to know, he affirmed, remembering the Viper’s threat. You should continue to deny the legionary this knowledge, Senator, for without it, it seems you would be truly worthless to me, and I would have little reason to keep you alive.

And then there were the Goths. Every one of the towering warriors who cast him a cold look could well be one of the Viper’s riders. Rumour had been rife that those very riders were secreted within the Gothic camp, and were the ones behind the numerous midnight slayings of noble Goths and ruination of what little grain supply they had. Perhaps, he gulped, looking around the plain, he might be their next target.

A chill wind whipped up, blowing snow over him.

‘Why do you mock me,’ he shook a fist at the night sky, then wondered at which deity he cursed. Wealth and power had been his gods since his earliest days as a politician, and both had served to humiliate him. He felt a fresh wave of despair creep over him, then pursed his lips and balled his fists. ‘Bury your self-pity, you fool,’ he affirmed, ‘it will bring you little providence.’

‘Speaking to shades, Senator?’ A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him.

He spun to scour the shadow under a lone snow-cloaked oak. There stood a dark figure beside a pair of tethered geldings. His nightmares rushed in for him as he remembered the green-cloaked apparition in Athanaric’s feasting hall. The Viper?

The figure stepped forward, and he heaved a sigh of relief upon seeing not a green cloak but a scale vest. It was Fritigern’s aide. ‘Ivo! What are you doing here?’

The giant warrior stepped forward, bronze hoops sparkling in his earlobe, the milky matter in his ruined eye glistening in the moonlight. ‘I have come to summon you.’

Tarquitius frowned. ‘Fritigern wants to see me, at this time?’

The big warrior shook his head, a cool grin splitting his face. ‘No, my true master has deemed it time to call upon you. He is nearby.’

Tarquitius scowled as Ivo carefully removed the two leather greaves on his arms. Then an icy horror raked across his skin as he set eyes upon the blue ink snake stigmas that coiled around the giant’s forearms.

The Viper’s words hissed in his mind.

When you see my mark, you will obey.

Pavo and Sura walked the snowy track through the Gothic camp on the first of their night patrol circuits. Their brief from Gallus was simple; to catch the Viper’s riders at large and to ensure that no innocent Goth was harmed. However, the passing Goths who carried firewood between the tents saw them as intruders rather than protectors, casting them steely glares and uttering low growls.

But Pavo’s mind was elsewhere. He wondered just how far he was prepared to go to weed the truth from Senator Tarquitius. Just last night he had found the nightmare of Father replaced by one where he was drinking a cup of warm blood, draining it before gleefully asking for more. Then he had looked down to see that in his dream he wore a senatorial toga. That had been enough to waken him, panting, bathed in sweat.

He shook his head of the memory and cast a glance across the plain to the dark outline of the Durostorum. At this, another cloud was quick to settle over his thoughts. They had visited The Boar and Hollybush earlier that evening. Felicia had been there, and once again, she had been distant, distracted.

‘You think she’s after a bit of Quadratus?’ Sura chirped, blowing into his hands.

Pavo’s face wrinkled and he turned to his friend.

‘Well she did ask more than once when he was due to patrol the Gothic camp?’ Sura shrugged. ‘I’d say there was a chance she was after a bit of. . ’ he looped one forefinger and thumb and prodded his other forefinger through it vigorously.

‘Did she look as if she was in that kind of mood?’ Pavo snapped.

‘Ach, she has a reputation. . ’ Sura started, then stopped, seeing Pavo’s scowl.

They walked on in silence, and Pavo thought of his bunk, praying tonight would be the night when he would fall into a dreamless sleep. The phalera tingled on his chest as if to remind him that hope was futile. He rubbed at his eyes; perhaps another night of chatting with Salvian was in the offing. They had spent many nights in these last few weeks talking and drinking watered wine while the rest of the fort slept. Conversation was always so easy with the ambassador, and offered a pleasant alternative to the nightmares. Pavo felt the beginnings of a smile lift his lips.

Then a high-pitched scream and angered voices rang out from a nearby cluster of tents.

Pavo looked to Sura and Sura stared back.

The Viper? Sura mouthed silently.

Then, without another word of deliberation, the pair clasped their hands to their scabbards and ran to the noise, their mail vests chinking.

From the corner of his eye, Pavo saw tent flaps ripple, Gothic heads poking out, frowning.

‘Every Goth in the camp must have heard that scream,’ Sura hissed as they ran.

Then they stopped, mouths agape at the scene before them, lit by the dancing orange of a campfire. This was not the work of the Viper.

A golden haired Gothic lady, ageing but still beautiful, cowered in the centre of a circle of eight legionaries. She whimpered, holding a hand to her face, unable to stem the flow of blood where her teeth had been knocked out. The legionaries were scale-vested comitatenses and carried blue shields; Lupicinus’ men. They had their spears levelled, keeping at bay a pack of five Gothic men, all of the same family going by their hair and features.

Then the lead legionary kicked a dark piece of matter, clearly crawling with maggots, towards the woman. ‘You got your meat, now eat it, before it rots!’

Pavo recognised the voice instantly; it was Ursus, the snub-nosed and scowling ringleader of the group accused of raping the Goth noble’s wife. Ursus rubbed at his knuckles, red with the woman’s blood. The rest of the men were those of Ursus’ contubernium, and they wore the same sneers of malice.

A wave of ire and nausea swept over Pavo as he eyed the scene, and his mind echoed with Salvian’s words. There are occasions when brute force is the order of the day.

‘What in Hades is going on here?’ He roared.

Ursus stopped, then turned to Pavo as if he had just punctured his wineskin. ‘You’ve got no business here, limitanei. Move on.’

Pavo and Sura stepped forward together. ‘Aye, but we do. This is our plain, our fort, our town,’ Pavo growled. ‘And these are our allies.’

Ursus snorted. ‘Our allies? They’re dirty, stinking, barbarian whoresons. Legionaries like you pair of pussies are the reason we are in this state in the first place. The whole of the Claudia are just the same.’ His cronies rumbled in laughter at this. ‘Now be on your way or you’ll be sorry.’

Pavo laughed a mirthless laugh, feeling his heart thunder. ‘No, you’ll tell us what you’re doing.’

Sura clasped his spatha hilt and added; ‘Or believe me, you’ll be sorry.’

Just then, one of the male Goths with striking green eyes stooped to pick up the rotting piece of meat and held it out. ‘We begged and begged them for food. Grain, flour, barley, anything that would fill our children’s bellies. They said they’d provide more boar meat, but only if we gave up. . ’ the man’s words were interrupted by a howl from the cowering woman, ‘. . only if we gave up our eldest child for the slave market. We gave up our boy, knowing that we would buy him back one day when all this is over. I haven’t cried so hard in all my life, Roman, as I did on the day they took him away.’ The man’s eyes were glassy and his expression lost, then it curled up into sheer hatred, and he hurled the stinking, maggot-infested meat onto the snow. ‘Then they brought us this; foul scraps of dog meat. And we are but one family of many that these whoresons have destroyed.’

Pavo gawped at Ursus and the contubernium. ‘Have you lost your minds?’

‘Are you trying to spark an uprising?’ Sura added.

‘Watch your mouth,’ Ursus spat back.

Pavo’s blood iced as he noticed from the corner of his eye a crowd of Goths emerging from the darkness, agitated, many armed. There were at least fifty of them. ‘Ursus, we can arm wrestle later, but for your own sake leave, get back to the fort.’

Ursus’ grimace faded when he noticed the ring of Goths that grew around them. ‘I have nothing to fear from these animals,’ he swept his sword derisively at the gathering Goths. ‘You barbarian dogs can scurry back inside your tents!’

Then, one Gothic boy leapt forward from the ring to grapple at the injured woman’s shoulders in an attempt to hoist her clear of the Romans. Ursus instinctively swept his spatha down. The boy toppled to the ground, his head cleaved at the crown, grey mush dribbling from the wound. Ursus looked up and round, his eyes wide in panic. ‘I thought he was coming at me with a blade!’

A silence hung in the air. Then a jagged Gothic cry rang out.

‘Kill them!’

‘No!’ Pavo roared, but his words were lost in the tumult as the crowd of Goths fell upon the contubernium. He and Sura tried to claw the Goths back, but were pushed away. At the centre of the circle, spears, axes and swords were battered down on Ursus’ contubernium again and again, the thud of shattering shields ringing out. Then, when the Roman shields were ruined, the punch of ripping meat and the crunch of snapping bone filled the air, accompanied by the final screams of Ursus and his men.

Then, without warning, a pair of Gothic warriors grasped Pavo and Sura, pulling them back from the incident. One of the Gothic pair hissed in Pavo’s ear. ‘Thank your Mithras that you have shown some valour today, Roman, otherwise you would have met the same fate.’

Pavo shrugged free of the man’s grasp.

Then a voice split the air. ‘Cease! By God and Mithras, cease!’

Pavo twisted round. Out of the darkness, Gallus, Lupicinus, Fritigern and Salvian emerged, side by side on horseback. Either side of them, the first century of the XI Claudia formed a line: Felix leading them and Quadratus, Zosimus and Avitus flanking them on the right. The legionaries edged forward, shields and swords ready, their crested helmets jutting forward like fangs. Pavo and Sura fell back to join them.

Fritigern heeled his mount forward and the Gothic circle parted immediately. ‘What have you done?’ He cried, seeing the sop of gristle and blood that was once Ursus and his men. ‘Comes, Tribunus,’ he called back to Lupicinus and Gallus, ‘You must believe I had no wish for this!’ Then he turned back to his people. ‘You have been warned!’ He roared at them. ‘You will pay for this.’

The Goths looked back with stunned faces, and more and more flooded to the scene. Then one Goth shouted back. ‘We have paid dearly as it is, Iudex Fritigern.’ It was the green-eyed Goth who had spoken to Pavo. ‘They have sold our children into slavery and mocked us by giving us rotten dog meat.’ At this, hundreds of voices chorused in agreement.

Fritigern’s face changed at that moment from panic to disgust. The Gothic Iudex twisted in his saddle and shot a burning glare at Lupicinus. ‘Is this true?’

Lupicinus’ lips trembled wordlessly, his tongue stabbing out to dampen them, his eyes darting around the gathering Goths.

Then Fritigern looked to Gallus, exasperated, his arms out wide. ‘Tribunus?’

Gallus’ nose wrinkled at the claims and he shot a fiery glare towards Lupicinus. ‘It appears so, Iudex Fritigern. But clearly, like you, I had no knowledge of these men’s intentions before their deeds were done.’

Fritigern looked from Gallus to his people, once, twice, then again. He panted through gritted teeth, his fiery locks whipping over his wrathful eyes, and pointed a shaking finger at Gallus and Lupicinus. ‘You cannot hide behind ignorance much longer, Romans.’

At this, the Goths rallied in a cry of support; thousands of them had now gathered, swelling around the first century. Fritigern seemed to flinch as he realised the effect of his words, and he turned to address his people, hands raised in a calming gesture. ‘Turn your minds from trouble, my people.’

‘Trouble is all around us!’ One voice roared back.

‘You will obey your iudex!’ Fritigern roared in riposte.

‘Then give us food! Give us food and we will follow you! Otherwise, step aside and let us fight for our lives!’ Another lone voice cried out. At this, a thousand more voices agreed. Then, with a rasp of iron, a thousand longswords were drawn and then held overhead.

‘Oh bollocks,’ Sura hissed, seeing Fritigern’s face fall, and Gallus’ arm rise to give the order to ready shields. ‘This is it!’

Pavo readied to draw his spatha. ‘I’ve got your flank, brother.’

But then a rumble of hooves grew from the south of the camp, accompanied by a cry. The Romans and Goths hesitated, turning to the south to scrutinise the two riders who thundered towards the confrontation.

Senator Tarquitius rode at the fore, clutching a scroll, and Ivo followed close behind. ‘Emperor Valens has sent word! We have grain, we have plenty grain!’

At this, the Goths lowered their swords and their roar died. All eyes fell upon the senator.

Quadratus and Avitus broke from the Roman line, stalking over to Tarquitius, the little optio grabbing at the senator’s sleeve. ‘Ennius the rider, he made it back? The man’s got a knack for timing!’

Tarquitius avoided his gaze. ‘The emperor’s orders are here, and that’s what matters.’ With that, the senator unfurled the scroll and Fritigern and the gathered Goths hushed to hear as he puffed out his chest to read aloud.

As Tarquitius let the first few words from the scroll spill from his lips, Gallus noticed something; Erwin the Goth stood, face pinched in hatred. His gaze was fixed not on the senator, not on Fritigern, but on Ivo.

Gallus’ breath stilled as he looked to Fritigern’s giant aide; Ivo’s good eye sparkled under his brow, and an inappropriate, shark-like grin curled under his arrowhead nose as the scroll was read aloud. A cool dread gripped Gallus’ heart as he looked to the broken wax seal on the parchment. He remembered how easily Quadratus and Avitus had forged the outgoing scroll. He glanced to Ivo again. What if. . He leaned over in his saddle towards Tarquitius. ‘Senator. . stop,’ he hissed.

But Tarquitius was in full flow and his voice filled the air.

‘. . and while military support may be some distance away, an imperial reserve of grain is available for just this eventuality, just a short distance south of Durostorum. . ’

Gallus’ hopes were momentarily lifted. Perhaps his fears were unfounded. If the grain could be gathered up from the southern towns and brought back to this plain then there was a chance that the Goths could be placated. Keeping them on this plain was vital.

But Tarquitius’ next words chilled him to his core.

‘. . Iudex Fritigern and the Thervingi will find grain at Marcianople, and should proceed to the city. No Goth or Roman will starve as long as. .’

At this, the Goths cried out joyously, drowning out the rest of the message. Ivo, however, did not so much as blink.

Gallus stared at the giant warrior and then at the senator. There was no imperial grain reserve left in Marcianople. He knew this because he had requisitioned the last of it some months ago to fill the empty horrea of Durostorum and the fort. More, there was no way Emperor Valens would invite the Goths to march south. He looked up to see Ivo ride over to Fritigern, then whisper in his ear, gesticulating to the south, urging and prompting the iudex as always.

But this time it took little effort, for Fritigern’s features were tinged with the same glow of hope as his people. The Gothic Iudex heeled his mount round to face his people, then swept a hand to the south.

‘Wake all in the camp, tell them Rome has promised us salvation. We will march with haste!’ Fritigern cried. ‘Cavalry: form up at the head and ride at full gallop. My infantry and archers, you will accompany the families and what animals we have left. The sooner we reach this city the sooner we are saved, as by the emperor’s solemn promise.’

Gallus tried to heel his mount towards the iudex, to correct him, to quell his expectation. But he and the first century were blocked by a surge of Gothic bodies; the cavalrymen rushed for their mounts and the people broke away from the scene of the standoff, hurrying back to their tents to douse their fires, tear down tents, collect their belongings and ready their wagons. Gallus felt control spinning away from him. He glanced to Lupicinus; the comes gawped at the goings-on with the expression of a boy lost in a busy city street.

‘Marcianople? That can’t be right,’ Felix stammered over the rabble, ‘The horrea of the city were near empty the last I heard.’

Gallus eyed him gravely, shaking his head. ‘Not a grain left in them, Felix.’

Quadratus’ face fell. ‘Fritigern will snap if he gets to Marcianople and there is no grain.’

Salvian sidled up next to them, watching Fritigern and Ivo at the head of the Gothic exodus. ‘Do the people of this city know what is coming for them?’

Gallus spoke in a hiss; ‘The gates of Marcianople will be closed when Fritigern arrives there. When this happens, I can only pray Fritigern’s wisdom and dislike of fighting against city walls still holds true. But I fear that his thoughts will be twisted towards conflict by the man who rides by his side.’

Salvian’s brow wrinkled, following Gallus’ gaze to the front of the Gothic migration. ‘You suspect Ivo, Tribunus?’

Gallus nodded, then drew his icy gaze around the gathered legionaries. ‘Ivo is no aide of Fritigern or ally of Rome. He knew what was on that scroll before it was read.’ He cast a foul glare at Tarquitius, who avoided eye contact. ‘Every misfortune that has occurred in these last months has pushed Fritigern’s people towards this; the arrival of the Huns, the tyranny of the rebel riders and their leader, the Viper — that shadowy creature who remains unseen yet seems to be ever-present in all of this like a vile stench — and then the ruination of the Goths’ food supplies. It has been a blessing that, despite this litany of disasters, Iudex Fritigern has held good to the truce until now. . but that scroll has just pushed us to the brink of war!’

Gallus twisted to Ivo. ‘Senator!’ He barked. ‘I can only hope that there is record of Ennius the rider bringing that scroll into the fort.’

Tarquitius’ features blanched and his jowls quivered. ‘I. . ’

‘Don’t test me, you fat fool!’ Gallus roared over the snowstorm. ‘Where did the scroll come from?’

‘It came from the rider. . ’ Tarquitius stammered, ‘. . I think.’

‘Who handed it to you?’ Gallus pinned him with a glare, heeling his mount over to Tarquitius and grappling the neck of the senator’s robes, yanking him from his saddle so they were nose to nose.

‘Ivo. He brought it straight from the rider and then the rider made haste to Constantinople. Ivo thought that haste was imperative and so came straight to me,’ Tarquitius lied, his eyes darting wildly over Gallus’ enraged features. ‘So there will be no record of Ennius the rider’s arrival at the fort.’

Gallus snorted, shoving the senator away again. ‘Then we are to believe that the words on a scroll delivered by a Goth are those of our emperor? This is a nonsense — we must ride Ivo down and take him from Fritigern’s side!’

Salvian placed a hand on the tribunus’ forearm. ‘Be wary, Tribunus — we are on the brink of war. Remember, we need proof!’

Gallus closed his eyes, his shoulders heaving as he took in a series of calming breaths. ‘Then we must shadow Ivo’s every move,’ he spoke at last. With that he heeled his mount into a turn and barked at the watching legionaries. ‘Form up the legion; we march south immediately!’