Viper of the North

Chapter 16

The Gothic war cries were deafening as they punched their weapons into the air, demanding that Iudex Fritigern act. Those nearest the city waited with their siege ladders, eager to push them up and against the city walls. The acrid tang of doused campfires spiced the air and offered an ominous portent to what the day ahead might hold.

‘Stand firm, men!’ Gallus bawled as he marshalled the cohort into a line, hemming the rear of the Gothic swell. Gallus glanced to each side, heartened somewhat to see the redoubtable grimaces on the faces of his most trusted men; Felix, Zosimus, Quadratus, Avitus, then Pavo and Sura. If things went awry, then he would be glad to fight his last alongside them.

‘Sir, I fear we should either be within those walls or far from them,’ Felix started. ‘The grain column is nowhere to be seen, and they’re on the brink.’ He pointed to Fritigern and Ivo at the head of the Gothic mass. Ivo, resplendent in his broad scale vest and conical helm, was remonstrating with his iudex, fists clenched, urging him to act.

‘No, there is another hope,’ Gallus replied, once again scanning the Gothic swell, seeking out Erwin the Goth; where are you, old man, come on!

He shuffled in his saddle, teeth grinding in frustration. But they had to wait, it all rested on the old man now. He remembered Salvian’s words of caution; You need proof, Tribunus. It warmed Gallus to know that Salvian was already headed northwards from the plain with the Roman refugees and would be safe from what was to come. And, by Mithras, Ambassador, I’ll embrace you like a brother if the proof I present to Fritigern staves off war.

Then, like a ray of sunshine splitting dark clouds, a lone figure wandered from the rear of the swell.

‘Sir?’ Felix said as Erwin the Goth stumbled towards them.

‘All is in hand, Felix.’ Gallus replied, ushering Erwin into the Roman line. But then he frowned, noticing that the old man was trembling and his face was pale. Then his gaze caught on little spots of something around the neck of Erwin’s robe. Blood?

A Gothic war horn echoed across the land and it shook Gallus from his doubts. He filled his lungs. ‘Stay your fears, men. The day can still be saved.’ He flicked a finger to the aquilifer, who raised the silver eagle standard until the ruby bull banner caught the cool breeze. ‘Form a column and advance,’ he barked, ‘and not a man is to draw his sword unless I give the word.’

Pavo squared his shoulders as they marched forward, blocking out his fears. The rear of the Gothic crowd turned to them, gaunt faces scowling in disbelief. Then a confident and predatory glare replaced that look. Just as they had done yesterday, the Goths parted like a venus flytrap sensing its prey, opening up a path to Fritigern and Ivo.

Pavo suppressed a shiver as they marched into the midst of the enemy ranks, blanking out the restless speartips and the sea of faces that eyed them hungrily.

‘We could have done with Salvian at right about this point,’ Sura spoke, his voice cracking, his eyes darting around the Gothic onlookers.

‘He’s played his part, and I fear that this time, talking will be inadequate,’ Pavo shook his head, saddened and heartened at once. He prayed Salvian and the Roman refugees were already well on their way to safety across the Beli Lom. Then he glanced up to the city walls, seeing that Tarquitius had joined Lupicinus and the governor; the senator had made a last minute bid to join the evacuation, slipping from the gate hatch, only to stumble back in terror at the sight of the Gothic horde marching on the walls. Again, a bittersweet jumble of emotions flitted across his heart; if the Goths were to fall upon this city, then the Senator would have carried out his last traitorous act. But the truth of his father would die with the fat swine.

Then a dry realisation settled his worries as they marched deep into the Gothic swell; if the Goths fall upon the city, then I will be in Elysium by evening.

The column slowed to a halt before Ivo and Fritigern. The rabble of the Goths died to a silence, leaving only the whistle of the gentle wind.

All eyes fell on Gallus.

‘Iudex Fritigern, I ask you and your armies to stand down,’ Gallus spoke in a flat tone.

Fritigern glared at him, eyes burning like hot coals, a look of utter disbelief etched on his features.

Ivo roared in laughter by his side. ‘Their words insult us, Iudex! The Romans have mocked us for the last time.’

‘I addressed Iudex Fritigern of the Thervingi, noble ally of Rome,’ Gallus shot a glare to the big warrior, then turned back to Fritigern.

The iudex’s expression was one of weary resignation. ‘You give me no choice, Roman. I have given you chance after chance to prove that the empire was good to her word, that you would treat us as allies and feed and shelter us. I offered you my armies in return; my men could have bolstered the imperial borders, fought and bled for the empire.’ His eyes were red-rimmed now. ‘Instead, I must turn my swords on your city walls.’

With that, Fritigern raised his hand.

Gallus braced and the legionary column instinctively bunched up with a rustle of iron as mail vests ground together and hands clasped to spatha hilts.

As Fritigern’s lips parted to bark the order, Gallus slid from his mount, hands in the air by way of supplication. ‘Iudex Fritigern, think this over just one last time, I beg of you.’

Gallus studied Fritigern’s face, praying to Mithras that the wrinkle in his brow meant there was a chance he could be persuaded. Fritigern’s eyes were glassy now, and the situation was like a spinning folles; the fate of the empire hanging on which side the coin would fall.

‘He wants another chance?’ Ivo mocked. ‘More time for our people to die, for our armies to weaken,’ he leant forward on his saddle, his good eye bulging as he pointed a finger at Gallus, ‘for Roman legions to gather and attack us?’

At this, Gallus snarled; ‘We have trodden lightly in your presence for too long, Ivo, out of respect for the iudex. Now, you leave me no choice.’

Ivo’s eyes narrowed.

‘Ivo is not who you think he is, Iudex,’ he continued.

Fritigern frowned. ‘Ivo? He has been by my side for over twenty years, Tribunus, armed and ready to protect me with his life. Please, do not insult me with some weak diversion.’

‘Then do not take my word for it, Iudex. Hear it from one of your own!’ Gallus spoke firmly, then turned, waving Erwin the Goth towards him. The old man ambled forward, dark lines now staining the skin under his eyes.

Gallus clasped a hand to Erwin’s shoulder, then frowned as he noticed a trickle of blood snaking from the old man’s lips. Erwin opened his mouth, and blood poured from the stump that remained of his freshly severed tongue.

Gallus recoiled and a gasp of disgust rang out. The old man slumped to his knees with an animal moan, sobbing.

‘What is this, Tribunus?’ Fritigern scowled, his nose wrinkling.

Gallus realised at that moment that subtlety was useless. ‘It is simple, Iudex,’ he stabbed a finger at Ivo as his next words formed in his throat. ‘Ask your most trusted man to remove the greaves from his arms.’

Fritigern frowned, shooting a glance to Ivo, then back to Gallus. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

Gallus stood firm. ‘It is a simple request, Iudex. One that could save thousands upon thousands of Gothic lives.’

Ivo began to roar in laughter at this.

But Fritigern held up a hand. ‘Ivo. Humour the tribunus.’

The laughter died, and Ivo’s face fell. ‘Iudex?’ He spluttered.

‘The tribunus is right; it is a simple request. You have nothing to hide — show him!’

Ivo bristled at this, his shoulders squaring. Then, with a low growl, he reached to untie the laces of his greaves and all surrounding them looked on.

Gallus’ eyes were fixed on Ivo as he loosened the knots. Behind the leather would lie the answer, the irrefutable proof in the form of a blue-ink snake stigma.

That Ivo is loyal to the Viper’s cause!

But then Gallus frowned as Ivo slowed. He noticed the giant warrior glancing up to the battlements to give an almost imperceptible nod to someone up there. Gallus followed his line of sight and frowned; only Comes Lupicinus and the wall guard stood there. Then he saw a figure emerge behind them; almost wraith-like, face in shadows under a dark-green hood. His blood iced.

A shout rang out from the battlements and Lupicinus and the wall guard broke out in some kind of scuffle. Above the crenellations, only limbs and flailing fists could be seen. As one, the legionary cohort, the Gothic mass, Fritigern and Ivo looked to the fracas in bemusement. Then, in a flash, an arm rose above the scuffle and a plumbata dart was hurled from the walls. Straight at Fritigern.

A collective gasp rang out as Fritigern shuddered in his saddle and the weighted dart punched into the ground behind him, dripping with blood. Gallus’ eyes snapped from the dart to the Gothic Iudex, who was touching fingers to his cheek, gashed wide open to the bone, sinews of flesh dangling and dripping with blood. Fritigern’s eyes were bulging.

The coin had fallen.

In the surreal hiatus that followed, Gallus backed away, lost for words. He turned to the cohort and motioned for them to back out of the Gothic swell.

Ivo leapt on the moment. ‘The plumed Roman on the walls has tried to kill our leader again, bold and unashamed, here before you all. The Romans are no allies! To arms!’ He roared. ‘Spill a gallon of their blood for every drop of Iudex Fritigern’s that has been shed today.’ He smashed his longsword onto his shield boss and orchestrated a roar from the Gothic armies.

Fritigern drew his longsword from his scabbard and held it high above his head.

‘Back, back!’ Gallus urged his men back along the narrow corridor in the Gothic ranks.

‘Death to the empire!’ Fritigern boomed swiping his sword down, the point aimed at a wide-eyed Lupicinus on the battlements. ‘To the walls! Bring me his heart!’

As one, the horde roared until the earth shook, then swarmed forward with a cacophony of battle cries. The ladders were raised up and clunked into place against the battlements and at once spearmen scurried up their rungs, eager for blood.

Gallus glanced in every direction. The narrow corridor in the Gothic ranks vanished as warriors rushed to slay the XI Claudia cohort.

‘Shields!’ He cried.

With a wooden clunk the legionaries were little more than intercisa helmets, spears, eyes and snarls behind a shield wall. Pavo felt the air being forced from his lungs as the Romans pressed together. There was no time for a plumbatae volley as the noose snapped tight, Gothic spearmen falling upon the Roman square with a smash of iron and a chorus of screams. Some Gothic warriors skated over the shield wall and into the midst of the cohort, such was their fervour. Some ran at the Roman spears unshielded, grappling the spear shafts, wrenching legionaries from the lines and onto the ground where they were hacked into little more than bone and gristle in a heartbeat.

Pavo’s shoulder jarred as the Goths smashed against his shield. Then he punched out with his spear, the tip plunging into one Goth’s eye socket, showering his face with hot blood, exploded eye and grey matter. Blinking the gore from his eyes, he saw that the charge had knocked some legionaries around him from their feet and into the square; the Roman square was bent out of shape and was collapsing.

When his spear was torn from his grasp, Pavo butted his shield out again and again, smashing bones of those who attacked him. Then he ripped his spatha from its scabbard and parried furiously.

A few paces from the square, one red-haired brute wielded a two-headed axe, swinging it round his head, teeth clenched in a manic grin. Then, beside him, a hand clawed at his knee. He looked down to see Sura being dragged out of the square by two Goths, his friend’s face agape with terror. The Goths dropped Sura before the axe-giant then backed off as the giant hefted his weapon, readying for a swing at Sura’s skull.

Pavo pushed free of the disintegrating Roman square. He pulled his shield round like a scythe to clear a path before him, then headbutted one eager opponent who rushed at him. The fin of his intercisa helmet pierced the Goth’s forehead dead centre, a neat triangular hole framed by white bone was quickly filled in by spouting blood. As the giant swung his axe for Sura, Pavo leapt forward, hacking his spatha down at the axe shaft. With only inches to spare the shaft was sheared and the axe head clunked onto the ground. Sura was left, face drained of blood, staring at the irate snarl of the bearer.

‘With me!’ Pavo roared, heaving his friend up by the forearm, then roaring as the giant ripped a dagger down his bicep and thigh. Fuelled by rage, he thrust his spatha forward, stabbing the giant in the gut.

With that, they tried to fall back. But the rest of the cohort had disintegrated into pockets of legionaries. So the pair circled, back to back, hacking at the Gothic swell. Every direction Pavo looked there were more and more spear shafts and longswords coming for them.

‘To the last!’ Sura snarled, kicking out at one Goth’s gut.

Then there was a jagged Gothic cry from Marcianople. ‘We have the walls!’ At this, a war horn moaned across the plain, and a cheer rang out.

Pavo blinked in disbelief as the swell around them eased, many warriors turning, rushing past them.

‘The city’s defences are breached. They’re going for the ladders!’ Sura spluttered. Then, as if to underline Marcianople’s fate, a sharp crack of timber rang out as a battering ram shattered the city gates.

Pavo parried at the thick pocket of eighty or more Goths who remained, set on finishing the Roman cohort. A white-hot, fiery pain shot through his bleeding bicep as he swiped his spatha around him, panting. ‘But there are still too many of them, Sura!’

Then, the pair were sprayed with hot blood and a Gothic head bounced past them.

‘Have that, you whoresons!’ A familiar voice rang out.

Tribunus Gallus had pushed through to the pair. With him were big Zosimus, Quadratus, Felix and Avitus, fighting in a tight pack. Crito and a smattering of others were close by.

At this, the Goths nearby backed off, uncertain, glances darting to the pack of hardy Romans and to the rest of their horde, swarming into the city. One turned and ran to the walls, then another. In moments, they were streaming for Marcianople, leaving the bloodied remnant of the Roman cohort behind. At last, the frenzy of battle eased.

Pavo’s blood iced as he beheld the city; it looked like some grotesque anthill, the few pieces of stonework not covered by ladders and clambering, red-armoured warriors were spattered with blood or draped with broken Roman corpses. A garrison legionary was hurled from the battlements and fell, thrashing and screaming, then landed head-first with a bony crunch on the ground. Black plumes of smoke belched out over the walls and a chorus of screaming rent the air. He felt shame at his failure to save those poor souls inside the walls.

‘Come on, you pair of bloody idiots!’ Zosimus roared at him and Sura. ‘Marcianople is lost. Make for the north!’

He turned to run with the pack of survivors, when, from the corner of his eye, he noticed that one mail-shirted figure instead ran towards the city, for the rear of the Gothic line, sword aloft. His heart froze. ‘Crito!’

Before he could think it over, he was off and after the grizzled veteran.

He heard Sura yelping behind him. ‘Pavo? Pavo! Oh for f. . ’

He caught up with Crito just as the veteran was about to take on four Goths on his own. He clasped a hand to the man’s shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’ He roared. ‘Didn’t you hear the order? The city has fallen!’

Crito’s face was twisted in a snarl and soaked with tears as he shrugged Pavo away. ‘I can’t leave them!’ He bellowed, sinking his spatha into the neck of one Goth, who roared in pain then greyed and crumpled as his lifeblood fountained from him.

Pavo parried a strike from another nimble-footed warrior. Then Sura joined them just in time to finish the Goth off with a slash across the belly, emptying the man’s grey-red, steaming pile of guts onto the plain. ‘Who? Everyone in those walls is dead, if not right now then before noon they will be.’

‘My wife, my little girl!’ He roared, lunging wildly into another pack of three Goths who came at them. With a flurry of hacking, Crito felled two of them, but then leapt back with a yell as his helmet toppled to the ground, a scarlet stump left where his ear had been. But Crito rushed back into the fray immediately, roaring as he drove his spatha through the Goth’s chest, before twisting his head this way and that to look for the next opponent.

Pavo pulled the veteran back and pointed to the walls. ‘Crito, they are gone. Listen.’

Crito glared at him, but then his face fell as he heard it: the terrible wailing inside the walls had stopped. Now there were only Gothic roars of victory, and all but a few Gothic stragglers had poured inside the city.

‘You can only help them now by living on to remember them, to honour their memory.’

Crito slumped at this. ‘I should have defended them. I should have been inside the city.’

Pavo pushed Crito back towards the rest of the fleeing cohort and nodded for Sura to watch their backs. ‘Every one of us did all we could, you can’t blame yourself. If you had been inside the city then you would have died too.’

Crito’s face was expressionless momentarily, then a scowl grew upon it. ‘No!’ He spat, tears dropping from his snarling expression. ‘If you and the rest of them had not run we could have saved them. They’re dead because of you, you whoreson!’ He thrust the palm of one hand at Pavo, catching him on the spliced flesh of his bicep. ‘You may as well have slain them yourself!’

Pavo winced, but bit back the battle-fuelled urge to retaliate. ‘Then you can hate me for it, but please, come with us.’

Crito spat at Pavo’s feet, then turned and jogged off to catch up with the cohort.

Pavo and Sura followed him.

Behind them, the city suddenly fell silent. Glancing back, Pavo heard the whinnying of horses, a whip being cracked, and then a voice cried out in unearthly pain. Then a dull, fleshy clunk ended the cry abruptly and a euphoric Gothic roar rang out.

Lupicinus gawped down from the battlements; the plumbata was still quivering in the earth behind Fritigern. A dreadful realisation crept over his skin as Fritigern looked up to the battlements, stunned, touching a hand to the gash on his cheek.

Lupicinus backed away from the iudex’s glare, then spun to the fleeing, green cloaked figure who had appeared from nowhere like a shade to throw the dart. ‘After him!’ He roared. But the figure fled like a leopard, barging legionaries from his path. Lupicinus raced along the battlements after him, hurdling the stumbling soldiers left in the stranger’s wake, eyes trained on the green cloak. So this Viper is more than just a myth!

‘Stop him!’ Lupicinus roared again. But the wall guard were gawping in horror at the goings-on outside, and every cry Lupicinus made went unheard, or by the time the sentries reacted, the figure had fled past them.

Then Lupicinus tripped on the heels of a legionary and fell to his knees, skidding to a halt as the tail of the green cloak disappeared down the stairwell of the gate tower. He punched the battlements and roared in frustration, cursing as he wrenched himself to standing. But then a clutch of sagittarii burst from the gatetower, pushing Lupicinus back like a river as they rushed to take up their positions. After that, the green cloak was nowhere to be seen on the walls or on the streets below.

Then his anger drained when a Gothic war cry filled the plain. He turned to look out over the battlements; the horde outside had come to life. Now they flooded for the walls, streaming up the ladders bearing swords, axes and spears, screaming for blood. Out on the plain, Gallus’ cohort resembled a morsel of bread being swamped by ants, Gothic warriors tearing the square to pieces.

His skin prickled and his blood felt like ice in his veins. A violent death awaited him today, he realised, his limbs quivering. He felt his bladder expunge its contents under his armour, and hated himself for it, hearing his father’s gruff and mocking laughter. ‘I’ll show you, you old bastard,’ he cursed his father’s shade, his voice cracking in terror.

He squared his jaw and scanned the wall guard. The two centuries permanently garrisoned in the city had been detached from their parent legion, the V Macedonia, for more than seventy years, and they knew little more than day to day policing. So his own two centuries of comitatenses would have their work cut out today. To a man, they grappled their weapons with white knuckles, almost as pale as their faces, darting glances to their leader.

‘Sir?’ A nearby soldier croaked as the howling from the ladders grew closer, iron blades glinting as the Goths neared the top. ‘Shall we loose our darts?’

Lupicinus looked back. It was too late for a dart volley; the Goths would be upon the battlements in moments. He stabbed out his tongue to dampen his lips, then filled his lungs and bellowed the best words he could find. ‘Brace yourselves, men. Steady your nerves and prepare to show these barbarians the way to Valhalla!’

A perfunctory cheer was cut short as the first of the Goths reached the lip of the walls and had his skull cleaved by a legionary. Then another legionary was punched back from the walls in a shower of blood, bone and teeth, a hand-axe embedded in his face where his nose used to be. The body plummeted to land on the flagstones of the city streets below with a dull crack. With that, the tide of Goths spilled onto the battlements and their cry was deafening.

Lupicinus pulled his spatha and shield up. He poised himself just as he had been trained to all those years ago when he was a terrified recruit; scared of his colleagues but even more so of returning home to his father. A spark of anger flared in his chest at this and he fixed his eyes on the Goth nearest to him. Time seemed to slow as two of his legionaries pressed up to flank him, the trio forming a Roman island in the sea of enraged Gothic spearmen. He jabbed out at the nearest foe, nicking the man’s neck, pulling out a piece of arterial wall. The snarling Goth fell silent, eyes bulging in bewilderment as his neck pumped blood. Then he fell like a toy, limbs flailing before crunching head-first into the city streets. At this the nearby Goths hesitated momentarily and hubris coursed through Lupicinus’ veins. Perhaps he was a valiant soldier after all.

‘For your empire, men!’ He roared. Now this was honour! This was glory!

He butted another Goth from the walls and then slashed at a pair who rushed at his flank, slicing one’s ribcage wide open and lacerating the sword arm of the other. His two legionaries closed up beside him every time he struck out, but for every Goth he felled, another ten poured onto the battlements to replace them. He glanced down to the streets: the citizens and civilian militia who had been poised behind the gates, armed with hoes and clubs, now scrambled back from the splintering timbers. Some were running for the centre of the city, no doubt looking to take refuge in attics and basements. To Hades with them, he thought, they are the cowards, not I! He growled and stabbed out at a Gothic spearman, swiping the spear shaft away and driving his spatha deep into the man’s guts. Then he slowed: over the dying Goth’s shoulder he saw swathes legionaries toppling lifelessly into the city. The battlements were dripping in a crimson carpet and the count of Roman helmets still active in the fray was now fewer than one hundred, he reckoned.

‘We have the walls!’ One Gothic voice cried out.

Then the air reverberated to the wail of a Gothic war horn. Then, moments later, the battlements shuddered under his feet as a sharp crack of splintering timber rang out, followed by a Gothic roar. Lupicinus fought on numbly, seeing the wave of red-armoured bodies wash into the city through the shattered gates, topknotted blonde locks and speartips bobbing like a cornfield. Beside him, one of his legionaries slumped to his knees and then toppled into the city, an arrow having exploded through the back of his throat. Lupicinus pushed back to back with his last man, then felt the man fall away, cleaved in the shoulder. He glanced around the battlements and could see no other Roman standing. His moment of hubris was gone, and his old friend panic clawed at his heart. He could see Gallus and the surviving cluster of the XI Claudia outside the walls, fleeing, and he so much wanted to be with them.

From the heart of the city, pockets of orange flame burst into life and thick black smoke plumes coiled from the red tiled roofs and the narrow alleys. But the worst thing was the screaming; women and children had the most piercing screams, and the enraged and starving Goths cut them short like farmers at harvest.

Suddenly, Lupicinus realised that the Goths around him had stopped fighting.

‘Come on, you dogs!’ He snarled, swiping out at them, disgusted at the tremor in his own words.

But they backed away, grins splitting their faces. He looked up to see that he was in the sights of chosen archers on top of the gate towers. They winked behind their bows, arrows nocked and trained on his throat. His bowels turned over and his legs took to trembling violently. Why were they hesitating?

Then one spoke in Greek, hissing like a snake as he removed his conical iron helm. ‘We have him — Iudex Fritigern’s would-be assassin!’

Lupicinus’ eyes widened and his mouth fell open. ‘No!’

The Goth who had spoken nodded his head. ‘Yes. We saw you. Mighty Ivo saw you!’

The others around him nodded and echoed in agreement.

‘No, it was not me. It was an intruder, a treacherous intruder.’ Lupicinus spun on the spot, searching for respite in the sea of malevolent, grinning faces.

‘Ivo and Iudex Fritigern will hear your plea,’ the Goth purred, then clicked his fingers. ‘Seize him!’

Lupicinus swiped his sword at them, but a jarring blow to his back sent him sprawling and his spatha and helmet clattered down into the city.

Defenceless, Lupicinus scrambled back from the Goths on his heels and palms of his hands. But then he was grappled by his shoulders and hoisted up, then another pair of hands clutched at his ankles and within moments, he was being carried down the stairwell like some prize boar. His lips flapped uselessly, his voice gone. His mind conjured up a flurry of horrific possibilities that lay in store for him as he was carried out of the tower and onto the bloodstained streets.

‘Ah, the assassin?’ A voice cooed.

Upside down, Lupicinus saw the one-eyed, smirking Ivo, mounted and leading a wing of Gothic cavalry into the Roman city.

Then, Ivo’s face fell baleful and he lifted his sword and bellowed to the Gothic swarm around him. ‘Here he is! Here is the man who thought he could strike down mighty Fritigern!’

The people slowed, turning to Lupicinus, their faces bent with rage.

‘Gut him!’ One voice screamed.

‘Tear out his heart!’ Another cried.

Lupicinus’ heart shrank. ‘No! It was the one in the green cloak! It was the Vi-’

But his words were cut short as Ivo trotted over and clamped a hand across his mouth. His eyes bulged as Ivo then drew a dagger.

The giant fixed his good eye on Lupicinus’ terrified stare. Then he used the blade to prise the comes’ teeth apart and then to hack into his thrashing tongue, his arm jerking as he sawed at the flesh. A serrated, burning agony coursed through Lupicinus’ mouth as blood spurted from his lips. His cries for help came out as a gurgling, tortured, animal moan.

Ivo pulled the severed chunk of tongue free and held it aloft. ‘Now take him to the centre of this fine Roman city. The forum would be a fitting place for his life to end.’

Lupicinus thrashed in vain as he was swept forward on the tide of hands until everything slowed as they entered the forum. He was let down and only four warriors remained clutching his limbs. All around him, the Gothic warriors and people pushed to get closer, but spearmen held them at bay, forming a circle around him. Directly before him stood Iudex Fritigern. Something had changed about the Gothic Iudex’s face; it was his eyes, they were deadly cold where once he had seen some warmth.

‘You think yourself a god, Comes Lupicinus?’ Fritigern spoke softly.

Lupicinus trembled, unable to reply due to his mutilated tongue, his face soaked in his own blood.

‘You tried to break my people on the plains by the river, treating us like animals. You tried to slay me yesterday and again today. You have either the heart of a lion, or the mind of a babe. You have set in motion a revolt against the empire, a revolt that will tear apart her armies, raze her cities, lay waste to her lands.’ Fritigern spoke through gritted teeth, holding a clenched and shaking fist inches from Lupicinus’ face. Behind him, Ivo stood, grinning like a shark at the Iudex’s words. ‘Now it is time to show you the power of my armies. My cavalry, archers and spearmen will be the death of your legions, Comes, starting with you.’

Lupicinus gawped as Fritigern stepped back with a nod. He croaked in terror as ropes were tied around his ankles and wrists. Then he glanced around him to see four muscular stallions facing away from him, their topknotted riders sneering back over their shoulders. Then, the men holding his limbs dropped him and walked away. He fell to the ground, the ropes lying loose on the flagstones.

Then, Fritigern flicked a finger towards Lupicinus. ‘Destroy him!’

With the cracking of whips, the four stallions were heeled into a trot, and Lupicinus was wrenched from the ground and spread-eagled, his torso bucking and thrashing.

‘Ya!’ The riders called out as the horses strained, their hooves slipping on the flagstones.

Lupicinus’ body stopped thrashing as it was pulled taut. Then, with a rhythmic popping, each of his limbs jolted from their sockets. Next, his muscles and sinew shredded and then disintegrated. He stared at the smoke-stained sky in search of escape from the horrific, white-hot agony that coursed through him. He heard a guttural moaning and realised it was his own. Then, he saw his father’s sneering face. You can’t call for help now, can you? You coward!

He blinked the image from his eyes. The blackness was creeping over him, as if he was being dragged backwards into a dark tunnel. In the remaining circle of light before him, all he could see was Ivo in the watching Gothic crowd.

But there was something else.

A few ranks behind Ivo stood the dark-green hooded figure from the battlements, face in shadows. There and not there at once. Then the figure lowered the hood for a heartbeat, revelling in Lupicinus’ suffering.

Lupicinus’ maelstrom of agony dulled for that instant as he realised he was staring at the face of the Viper. Confusion laced his final thoughts.

Then, with a wet clunk, Lupicinus’ spine disarticulated and his body tore apart at the waist. Guts and organs poured from both halves of his body and at last the blackness took him.

Senator Tarquitius loped through the southern streets of Marcianople behind a handful of Roman citizens. The stench of burning flesh and woodsmoke followed them and the smashing of clay and cracking of wood told of the destruction taking place all around.

The screaming from the north of the city had stopped and now these few citizens who had escaped the influx of Goths were headed for the southern gate. Tarquitius’ lungs burned as he tried to keep pace with them. Got to get out, got to get away. Back to Constantinople. I’ll be safe there. He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw the wall of Gothic spearmen who were sweeping the streets north to south, only a hundred paces away. The Viper may still have a use for you, a nagging voice spoke in his mind. No, with Pavo surely slain before the walls, you can offer him nothing, nothing! He will be the death of you, and you know this! Another voice countered.

‘They’ve taken the southern walls too!’ A man cried out shrilly from amongst the fleeing citizens.

Tarquitius skidded to a halt, lips flapping, blood chilling in his veins as he saw the Gothic spearmen spill around the battlements and the southern gatehouse. Whimpering and wailing, the citizens dispersed into buildings like rats scattering before a bright light. Suddenly, Tarquitius felt more alone than ever before. Then he saw two elderly Roman women at the door of a smithy, tugging at the handle in vain, glancing back in terror.

Tarquitius rushed forward, barging the two to either side of the door and shoulder-charging it open. He tumbled into the soot-blackened room, still hot from forging and the floor still lined with sword racks. His eyes darted around the space for a place to hide. Then he saw the faint outline of a trapdoor in the filthy floor.

‘Jupiter bless you!’ One of the women croaked behind him from the doorway.

He spun to see the pair coming in to hide with him. Then his eyes bulged as he saw a wave of Gothic spearmen rounding the corner, roaring. Their spears were lowered for the kill, eyes manic with bloodlust and sweeping the street for victims.

Before he realised what he was doing, Tarquitius charged back against the door, slamming it shut once more, pushing the two women out into the street. Better one of us lives than all three of us die! He consoled himself as he lifted the trapdoor, heaved out the crate of tools in the small space underneath, then crouched and lowered the trapdoor on top of himself. He screwed his eyes shut tight and bit into his wrist as he heard the thundering footsteps of the Goths approaching, then the tortured screams of the women. Mercifully, they were cut short. Then the footsteps grew distant.

He waited in the floorspace for some time. His legs grew numb and his bowels and bladder creaked. But I have survived! He realised. At once, his mind began to turn over the possibilities. Perhaps the Goths would bypass this insignificant smithy? There was bound to be a water bucket in here somewhere. He could hold out for a few days without food and then he could slip out of the city once the Goths left or reduced their presence within the walls. Yes, he enthused, the Viper will assume I perished in the sack of the city. I can slip back to Constantinople, I can resume my role in the senate, then put my mind to my quest for power. Nothing stands in my way. .

Then, the door of the smithy creaked open.

Tarquitius’ heart froze.

A single, slow set of footsteps trod slowly into the smithy. Then they stopped, right by the trapdoor.

‘He came in here, master, our men swear they saw him,’ a voice spoke from further away, near the doorway.

Then another, horribly familiar voice rasped, and it felt to Tarquitius that the speaker was right by his side; ‘He is in here. We just have to draw him out. . ’ Then a rasp of iron sounded from one of the sword racks.

In the silence that ensued, Tarquitius’ eyes darted this way and that in the darkness of the floorspace.

Then, with a thunder of shattering timber, an iron blade plunged through the trap door and scythed past Tarquitius’ neck.

At once, the breath spilled from the senator’s lungs, and he burst from the trap door, wailing, clasping at the scratch on his neck. He beheld the two figures that stood in the smithy, and knew what a mistake he had made.

‘Close the door, Ivo,’ the Viper hissed from the shadows of his hood, clutching a dagger in one hand, his cloak damp with blood from the slaughter.

‘Aye, master,’ Ivo said, the door creaking then clicking shut.

‘I. . I have done as you asked! I let you in to the city,’ Tarquitius croaked, crawling from the floorspace, then creeping backwards from the Viper on the palms of his hands until he clashed against a sword rack.

‘Aye, you have,’ the Viper nodded, drifting forward. ‘But I must ask myself; are you still of use to me?’ He said, flexing his fingers on the sword hilt. ‘Now, I have other places to be; let’s make this quick.’

Then the Viper reached a hand to either side of his hood.

The shadow slid away and the poor light within the smithy fell upon the Viper’s face.

Tarquitius’ eyes bulged and his heart froze. ‘Gods, no!’

Salvian galloped from the ridge and into the plain north of Marcianople. He caught up with the head of the Roman refugee column then slid from his mount, panting, and turned back to face the sea of terrified faces. The handful of scouts and non-combatant legion staff who had led them this far were struggling to curtail the panic of the group.

‘They want to run, ambassador,’ one scout gasped, his eyes wide, barging the crowd back with the shaft of his spear. ‘They want to scatter and break for the trees.’

Salvian shook his head. ‘No, they must stay together.’ Then he waved them forward pointing to the timber bridge over the River Beli Lom, a good mile in the distance, and bawled; ‘Pull together, once over the river we will be safe.’ To his relief, the authority of a single voice seemed to stay their fears somewhat, and they moved forward together.

But when they reached the centre of the plain, Salvian stopped, feeling the ground tremble. Riders. He looked to the eastern end of the ridge behind them. There, in the distance, a cloud of dust rose, growing closer.

Then, a wing of several hundred Gothic riders burst into view, helmets donned, spears lowered, their leader carrying a dark-green snake banner. The Romans broke out in a panicked wail, turning to run in the other direction. But on that side another Gothic wing raced into view, equally readied for slaughter. The two wings cantered forward to encircle the Roman refugees, then stopped.

‘Ambassador! What do we do?’ The scout was trembling, his face ghostly white.

Salvian looked to the scout, his face grave. ‘This is for me to handle. All my years of learning have been for this moment.’ With that, he turned to look up in silence at the lead rider. Then he stepped forward, unarmed, palms extended by his side in a gesture of supplication.

But the lead rider’s face curled into a predatory grin at this. Then a rasp of iron rang out as he drew his longsword.

‘Once we’re over that rise, there’s less than a mile to go to the bridge; keep the pace!’ Gallus bawled to his legionaries, eyeing the grassy ridge that marked the northern end of the plain of Marcianople.

As he ran, he took to firing glances back over his shoulder at the now distant city. It was glowed orange, the walls were blackened, flames licked above the battlements and smoke spiralled out across the sky. The acrid tang of destruction stung in his nostrils. The die had been cast; Fritigern had been turned irreversibly. The truce was shattered. He issued a silent prayer to Mithras for the legionaries and families inside the burning city.

He dropped back to the rear of the column to perform a head count of the bloodied, tattered rabble, many having lost helmets, shields and weapons in the action. He counted sixty and frowned, then counted again. Still only sixty. The cobbled-together cohort had been all but extinguished only days after being formed. All those unfamiliar faces he had led from the fort yesterday had slipped into the army of shades that marched in his memories. It warmed him ever so slightly, however, to see that the core of his best men were still with him. Felix, Zosimus, Quadratus and Avitus formed the front of the retreating column and Pavo and Sura brought up the rear. He picked up the pace to join the head of the column again as they crested the rise, then he sucked in a breath to rally them once more.

Then the sixty stopped. Not a single breath escaped as they gaped at the scene before them.

The top of the ridge and the near side of the plain on the other side was carpeted with slain bodies. The Roman refugees. Eyes staring, mouths agape, hands reaching out, frozen in death.

Thousands of them.

Gallus’ eyes bulged at the sight, and he heard some of his men vomiting around him. He saw the corpses of the few non-combatant legion staff tangled in the mire of blood and bodies. Mithras save us, a voice whispered in his head, they’ve been slaughtered like cattle. He craned his neck to gaze over to the end of the plain; the tip of the bridge over the Beli Lom was just visible. And they were but a mile from safety.

He felt all eyes fall upon him. Looking up, he saw glassy determination in each of his men’s eyes, except Pavo; Pavo shook his head in denial as he gawped at the carpet of dead, the knotted limbs, the shorn flesh. Gallus frowned, then he realised. Salvian. Gallus closed his eyes, his heart sinking. I pray you have a swift journey to Elysium, my friend.

Then, when he opened his eyes, he saw a hoofprint in the earth, still fresh and swirling with pooling blood. The iron veneer came crashing down once more. ‘The horsemen who did this must still be nearby. Get to the bridge!’

As one, the sixty rippled into a jog, down the ridge to make their way across the northern plain. Up ahead, the timber bridge beckoned. Then, a few hundred yards after that, a forest stretched for some distance.

‘Whoa! What’s that, sir?’ Felix skidded to slow down, then nodded forward to a shape positioned at the far bridgehead. It was about as tall as a man and as broad as four, covered with a large cut of hemp cloth. The rest of the sixty slowed likewise.

Gallus’ eyes glinted. ‘That’s our last hope. A four-fanged creature. . ’

Felix cracked a dry grin. ‘The giant ballista?’ Then he turned to the sixty and bellowed; ‘Come on, did I say you could stop?’

Gallus gazed past the device and up ahead. He frowned as he searched the grass around the shape for sight of the four legionaries he had left there, but not a soul was to be seen. He leaned in towards his primus pilus; ‘Well hopefully we won’t need it,’ he said tentatively, darting a glance around the deserted plain. ‘We get over the bridge and we get ourselves into those trees. Then we can take stock, see to the men’s wounds, check our rations and equipment. . ’

Gallus’ words trailed off as he felt it; the ground was rumbling beneath them. He twisted round as he ran.

‘Mithras, no!’ Felix hissed, sharing the glance back to the grassy rise.

A dust plume billowed from the plain they had just left, then a wing of some one hundred Gothic cavalrymen burst over the rise, the lead rider carrying a billowing banner bearing the mark of the Viper.

‘Make for the bridge, break ranks!’ Gallus cried.

At this, the legionaries afforded only a heartbeat of confusion before they turned and saw what was coming for them. At once, the column disintegrated and the men ran, throwing down remaining shields, spears and helmets. To a man they knew that to be caught in an open plain, outnumbered by cavalry meant certain death.

Gallus twisted to look back as he ran. The cavalry had closed in on them, only a quarter-mile behind. He could now see their red leather cuirasses, conical helmets and their spears, pointing for the sky. Then, on the jagged bark of the cavalry commander, the iron tips were lowered in one fluid motion for a charge. Gallus glanced over his men; they would never reach the bridge in time, he realised. He dropped back to the aquilifer at the rear; the man was struggling for breath. Gallus clutched the silver eagle standard and wrenched it from the man, who refused to release it at first.

Gallus hissed at him. ‘Your honour is intact, man, give me the eagle, and get yourself to that bridge. Go!’

Gallus spun to face the Gothic cavalry, and staggered back on seeing them only twenty paces away, at most. The riders bore the rapacious grins of men who knew victory and an easy slaughter was theirs, their blonde locks billowing, their mounts frothing, glistening with sweat from the charge. He felt a twinge of an old feeling, terror, then swatted it away like a mayfly. With that, he lifted the standard and waved it to the treeline either side of the plain. The lead Goth roared out a baritone war cry, training his spear on Gallus’ throat. Gallus closed his eyes and searched for memories of Olivia.

Then, a thick twang rang out, and at once, the trees either side of the plain spat forth a ferocious hail. Gallus opened his eyes just in time to see the Goth before him being punched from his mount by one of the missiles, body broken like clay, a cloud of crimson puffing on the spot where he had been saddled. All along the Gothic cavalry line, riders and mounts were swept from their course by the flanking fire of ballista bolts.

‘Mithras bless the ballista!’ He roared, then grappled the reins of one riderless horse and swung up onto the saddle. Galloping for the bridge, he lay flat along the beast’s back and twisted to see the Gothic charge falter under the ballista hail, horses stumbling over the fallen, riders reining their mounts in. He reached down to pluck the struggling aquilifer up by the scruff of the neck, hoisting the man into the saddle behind him.

‘Excellent idea, sir!’ The aquilifer cried.

‘Don’t get too excited yet,’ Gallus growled, just as the rhythmic twang of the ballistae slowed, then stopped.

‘Why have they stopped?’

‘The ballistae are out of range,’ Gallus confirmed with another glance back; the Gothic cavalry had been thinned, maybe by half, but now the charge was on again and they would still sweep over the legionaries before they reached the bridge. He turned to face forward again, and pointed to the mass on the far side of the bridge with the hemp cloth upon it, ‘but that one most certainly is not!’

‘Sir?’ The aquilifer frowned.

Gallus ignored the man’s confusion and roared to the far bridgehead. ‘Ballista crew! Ready yourselves!’

Heeling his mount, he kept his eyes trained on the hemp-covered device, waiting for the four legionaries he had left to man the giant ballista to burst from the undergrowth, or leap out from behind it. He had been clear with his orders when he had posted them here on the march to Marcianople. Keep watch on the bridge from the trees, and be ready to man the device if the Goths turn to war.

Instead, four topknotted Gothic spearmen scrambled from a beech thicket near the device, then tugged the hemp cloth away, and readied themselves to fire.

Gallus pulled on his mount’s reins in horror. The ropes on the device were taut, the weapon loaded. Only now could he see the faint trace of red in the grass around the bolt-thrower, the last remnants of the four poor sods he had left there. Ahead of him, the column had stumbled into an impasse, glances darting from the onrushing Gothic cavalry to the giant ballista. Gallus searched for the orders that would make it all right. But there was nothing.

His heart froze as the giant weapon shuddered and, with a crack of thick rope releasing its furious tension, spat out its four bolts, each twice as tall as a man, with the girth of a young oak and a rapier-like head. A blur of bodies shot past him; three of his men, pinned together on one of the giant missiles which hurtled on across the plain for another hundred feet before ploughing into the earth. From the corner of his eye, he saw the other three missiles wreak similar destruction.

When the ballista fell silent, the crew started to load up the first of the next batch of four missiles. The Gothic cavalry had slowed from their charge, sensing victory. They closed up to form a crescent, penning the legionaries in to the bridge and the riverbank. Then they trotted forward, drawing their swords, eyes glinting as they beheld their kills.

Gallus shook off his momentary hesitation, slipped from the saddle of his mount and then waved the eagle standard. ‘Around me!’ He roared, pacing backwards from the noose of riders. The straggle of legionaries staggered over to stand with their tribunus, levelling what weapons they still carried. Behind him, he heard the clunk of the second ballista bolt being loaded into the device. This was it, he realised, anger boiling in his chest. His men would die, he would die. But he would die like a trapped animal, without honour. Then, the most innocuous of sights caught his eye as he glanced over his shoulder to check his men’s positions; a red squirrel scuttled across the underside of the timber bridge, terrified by the commotion. His spine tingled as a sliver of hope dawned on him.

‘I want two men. Good climbers!’ He hissed over his shoulder.

The men looked to him and to each other, terror and puzzlement etched on their features.

‘Sir?’ Zosimus croaked from behind the veil of gore on his face.

Gallus glared at the veteran centurion. Now was not the time for detailed explanations.

‘I’m in,’ a voice spoke.

Gallus turned to see the wiry form of Pavo. The young legionary was still bleeding from the wounds to his bicep and thigh, but his face was etched with a bitter determination.

‘I said, I’m in,’ Pavo repeated, taking off his helmet and tossing it to the ground along with his mail vest, shield and spear. Then he backed out of the tightly packed pocket of Romans.

Gallus saw the glint in Pavo’s eye, and the faint nod to the Goths busying themselves loading the third missile into the giant ballista. He was already up to speed with the plan. A sharp lad, Gallus thought, not for the first time.

‘Me too,’ Sura croaked. ‘Best climber in all Adrianople!’

Gallus eyed the pair, then nodded. ‘Get to it!’

As Pavo and Sura slipped from the rear of Roman cluster, down the riverbank to the water unseen, Gallus turned back to the Gothic cavalrymen. The one in the centre held Gallus’ glare and returned it with a smirk.

‘The land beneath your feet is now Gothic dominion, Roman!’ He spat. ‘You are trespassing on foreign soil.’ He raised his sword, his eyes narrowing. ‘Now you must be slaughtered, like vermin!’

With that, the Gothic riders rushed forth with a cry.

Gallus and the legionaries pushed together, shoulder to shoulder. He readied himself to leap for the big rider who had spoken, and his heart thundered like a kettledrum. He sucked in a breath and roared.

‘For the empire!’

Pavo turned from the skirmish and dropped from the lip of the riverbank, then skidded and slithered down the scree of the banking by the side of the bridge.

Every last one of those bastards will bleed their last today, a voice in his head rasped as he saw only the image of that carpet of dead. Salvian, you will be avenged!

The swirling rapids of the narrow river rushed up at him as he slid. When he clawed out to slow his descent, the stones bit into the flesh of his palms. Then, with a thud, his leading foot jarred against a boulder, and he was catapulted head over heels into the water.

The chill water numbed him instantly and his lungs seemed to shrink in shock as he thrashed, fully submerged. Then panic gripped his heart as the current dragged him downstream, away from the cover of the bridge. If the Goths on the opposite bank saw him, then the Roman ploy was doomed, and he would be target practice for their archers. He kicked down to find purchase against the riverbed, but there was nothing there, and the weight of his spatha was pulling at his belt like a rock.

Then something grappled at his collar and he was hauled out of the water like a fish.

‘Off to the coast for a break, were we?’ Sura grunted, pulling Pavo back to the bank.

‘Aye, something like that.’ Pavo shrugged Sura away with a frown. Then a bloodied legionary toppled from the bank just above, a crimson gash across his neck. Both of them looked at the corpse and then one another.

‘Let’s move!’ Pavo hissed. With that, he grappled one of the posts supporting the bridge, shimmying up then looping his legs around the diagonal beam that stretched out across the underside of the structure. His spatha dangled below him and he felt the beam bowing and creaking as Sura followed close behind, then he looked up; flitting between the gaps in the slats of timber, he could make out the Goths loading the giant ballista. Then he heard the fourth and final ballista bolt clunk into place and his heart thundered.

He let go a few feet short of the opposite riverbank and splashed into the shallows. Then he scrambled up to the bridge side and ducked to peek over the timbers at the Goths; there were four of them, all built like oxen. Crucially though, they had all downed their swords, spears, shields and helmets to operate the huge bolt thrower.

‘Ready?’ Sura slapped a hand on his shoulder.

Pavo nodded hurriedly as the screaming of legionaries grew more frequent from the skirmish on the opposite bank. ‘Two each?’

‘Let’s go!’ Sura hissed. At the same time, the ropes of the giant ballista creaked and groaned as the Goths tensed the device for the next volley.

The pair scuttled out from the banking, looping round to come at the Goths from behind. Pavo slid his spatha from its scabbard silently, then leapt at the nearest Goth. The man spun at the last moment, his mouth agape. He managed to utter the first half of some Gothic exclamation, before Pavo sank his sword through the warrior’s shoulder, deep into his chest. ‘How does it feel, murderous whoreson?’ Pavo snarled, then placed a foot on the felled man’s shoulder and wrenched the blade free again, blood spurting from the wound.

The next Goth was stunned for a heartbeat, then scrambled to the pile of longswords nearby, but Pavo flicked his spatha up to grasp it by the blade, then hurled it at the warrior. The blade spun through the air and burst through the Goth’s chest.

Pavo didn’t wait for the man to fall, instead ripping his dagger from his belt and rushing to Sura, who had slain one Goth but was at an impasse with the last one. The pair’s swords were locked and Sura was trying in vain to headbutt the man despite the stark difference in height. Pavo roared. At this, the Goth leapt back, darted a glance over his slain comrades, then bolted for the trees.

When Sura stormed after him, Pavo grasped his friend back. ‘Leave him! Get to the ballista!’

Sura spun away from the fleeing Goth, panting in fury, then grappled the right winch as Pavo gripped the left. Gallus and his men at the far end of the bridge had been thinned to a mere handful now. The pair groaned as they pulled at the wheels, veins bulging in their arms, Pavo’s wounded bicep slick with blood. At last, each winch clicked — the bowstrings were fully retracted. ‘That’s it, it’s ready!’

Sura stood back from the device, eyes glinting in bloodlust. He cupped his hands to his mouth and roared across the river. ‘XI Claudia!’

Gallus spun round after slashing one Gothic horseman from belly to neck. The tribunus’ eyes snapped onto the pair behind the bolt-thrower. He relayed the order again and again, until the straggle of legionaries that remained realised what was happening, and barged away from the bridgehead to slide down the riverbank.

The Goths were momentarily bemused by this, some laughing, some throwing gleeful curses, watching as the Romans seemingly fled for the waters. Then their leader looked up to the northern bridgehead, his mouth agape, eyes bulging.

Pavo dipped his brow, his gaze trained on the leader with a steely conviction.

‘Loose!’

The giant device bucked as the ropes unleashed their tension, hurling the four colossal bolts directly across the bridge. The riders had not even a heartbeat to react, before their bodies were ripped asunder like wet rags, man after man skewered on the same bolt. Limbs spun free of torsos, heads disintegrated, mounts were smashed like insects, and the air was blotted with puffs of crimson. Then all was still.

The riders who had been moments from exterminating the Roman retreat now numbered only a handful, the rest gone from the world or moaning, their bones shattered or their mounts pinning them to the earth.

Pavo felt no joy, no glory at the sight, only disgust. Yet they had to die for their deeds. Then, he wasted no time in sealing the victory. ‘Load the next set of bolts!’ He roared.

At this, the Gothic survivors looked to one another, eyes wide. Then they heeled their mounts into a turn and a gallop, back to Marcianople.

He slumped against the ballista, panting, limbs shaking, wounds burning. Then he looked up to share a weary glance with Sura, the pair’s relief going unsaid.

Then, a drumming of boots on the bridge sounded as the surviving legionaries came hobbling across, Gallus at their head. But only eight men came with him. The core of the legion still lived; Felix, Zosimus, Quadratus, and Avitus were followed by Crito and Noster.

‘Pavo! What are you waiting for? Get the next set of bolts loaded up!’

Pavo looked up to see Gallus frowning at him. He shrugged to his tribunus. ‘There are no more bolts, sir, I just said that to scare them.’

Gallus slowed, as if searching for a rebuke. Instead, his face settled into the usual ice cold expression. ‘Good thinking, soldier,’ he nodded briskly.

Pavo would normally have felt his heart swell at this; drawing a tepid acknowledgement from Gallus was a rare feat — like a bear hug from any other. But he could only think of Salvian, lying back on the ridge, tangled somewhere in that bloody mire of dead.

His gaze was drawn back to the southern horizon and the ridge that lay beyond it; framed by the smoke plumes from the city, a dark cloud of carrion birds circled in the sky over there, waiting to swoop and pick the flesh from the Roman dead on the ridge. Sorrow stung behind his eyes. Then he noticed something move on the sides of the plain.

He tensed, grappling his sword hilt.

‘Relax,’ Quadratus grunted, clasping a hand to his shoulder. ‘They’re ours!’

The ballista crews that Gallus had planted in the treeline stumbled up the track towards the bridge. Some thirty men, all having cast off their heavy armour and weapons. All around him, the weary legionaries cried out hoarsely, urging the artillerymen on.

But Pavo’s brow dipped as he sighted the lead artilleryman’s face; wrinkled in terror.

‘Something’s coming for them!’ He cried, and the rest of the legionaries spun to look.

At that instant, a fresh wing of fifty Gothic riders thundered into view from the treeline, in pursuit of the artillerymen. Pavo instinctively looked to Gallus for an order, his gut shrinking as he realised what that order had to be.

‘Take the bridge down!’ Gallus barked, his voice grave.

Crito was the first to gasp a reply. ‘But, sir, the artillerymen?’

Gallus shot Crito a look that would surely have scorched the veteran’s soul, but before the tribunus could add words to the glare, a trilling battle cry sounded from behind them. The legionaries spun to see the big Goth who had fled the giant ballista, bursting from the nearby trees, leading another seven spearmen.

Gallus’ head twisted to the threats haring in from the north and the south, then he barked; ‘Zosimus, Quadratus, Felix, Avitus, with me, we’ll take on those spearmen.’ Then he glanced around the four remaining legionaries. ‘The rest of you — take that bridge down!’

As Gallus rushed forward to intercept the spearmen, Sura, Crito and the young recruit, Noster gawped after him. Then Noster and Sura gulped and pulled their axes from their belts. They cast hesitant glances at the bridge, then at the fleeing ballista crew and then the Gothic cavalry less than a quarter mile behind.

Crito cast a foul glare upon them. ‘Drop your axes!’ The veteran snarled. ‘We’re not condemning our own men to death!’

Pavo wanted to agree with the veteran’s words wholeheartedly. But the cold reality was that if they left the bridge standing, the Gothic riders would race across the river and slay the artillerymen and the rest of the legionaries on the northern banks anyway.

‘You heard the tribunus’ orders!’ Pavo barked in reply. ‘Do you want to live, or die?’

Noster lifted his axe again, but hesitated, eyes wide with indecision. Pavo growled, then strode over to the bridge, hefting his own axe as he slid down the banking to the supporting pillars. He hacked at the nearest one, then again and again. The bridge shuddered and sagged at one side. Sura was already skidding down the opposite side of the bridge to chop at the other pillar. He looked up at Noster and Crito. ‘Come on!’ He roared.

At this, Noster slithered down the banking to chop at the remaining pillar. The three hacked furiously, blocking out the wails of confusion from the artillerymen, now only a few hundred strides from the bridge.

The bridge juddered and sunk in the middle. Timbers toppled into the water. Then Pavo swung his axe back for a blow that would surely smash through the last of the supporting pillars on this side. But a hand grabbed his wrist.

‘You’ve gone too far this time, you spineless bastard!’ Crito spat, inches from his ear. ‘You’re too keen to see your comrades die, just to save your own neck.’ His face was a shade of crimson from the gore of the fight and pure, boiling rage. ‘I could have saved my wife and my daughter if it wasn’t for you!’

The words bit at Pavo’s chest, and he affixed Crito with a firm stare. ‘I lost my family, years ago. The few who have ever come close to replacing them have been slain too.’ For a heartbeat, Salvian’s face appeared in his mind’s eye. ‘And as for the ballista crew? I’ve never met them, but they are like brothers to me!’

The pair glared at one another, then they were shaken back to the present by a cry from Noster. ‘The pillar on the far side needs to be hewn!’

Pavo glanced across; the bridge would not fall away without that last pillar being smashed. He thought of all that was lost to him, and all he would give to have it back. With that, he leapt up, hauled himself onto the sagging bridge, then rushed across the timbers.

‘Pavo?’ Sura yelled after him.

Pavo skidded down onto one knee and smashed his axe at the main pillar supporting the southern bridgehead. Once, twice, and again, each time seeing the fleeting images of Tarquitius’ haughty expression, of Father stood on the dunes, of Salvian, lost in the tangled carpet of dead. Then, with a groan and a crack, the pillar was gone, and the bridge slid into the waters, disintegrating, pieces being washed downriver by the furious current.

It felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. For there was no doubt now. He was to die.

As the thundering of the Gothic horsemen grew closer and closer behind him, he saw Crito. The veteran gawped at him from across the river, eyes wide in disbelief. Then he gave Pavo an earnest nod. Pavo nodded back, then glanced to Sura and Noster, before grappling his axe in one hand, spatha in the other.

Then he turned to face the riders.

The Gothic cavalry were but strides away, and the artillerymen skidded to a halt, clustering around Pavo and the ruined bridge, wailing. Pavo saw the Goths through a crimson veil, and the blood pounded in his ears, the phalera pressing into his chest. For an instant, he realised he would now never know the truth of his father. Then he gritted his teeth. Perhaps Father himself can tell me of it when I meet him in Elysium.

With that, he barged forward and let out a roar, lining up to leap for the central Gothic rider. He barely realised that the fleeing artillerymen had rallied behind him and rushed in his wake, daggers drawn, echoing his cry.

Like a handful of gazelles turning on a pack of lions, the battered Romans leapt up at the riders, butting, punching, stabbing, pulling the Goths from their mounts. Pavo shouldered the leader in the gut, knocking the man from his saddle, the pair crunching to the plain. He smashed his sword hilt into his foe’s jaw, then spun the blade and drove it down into the warrior’s chest. As the warrior vomited a thick bloody soup, Pavo stood, ripped his sword free and spun to face his next opponent. At that moment he realised numbly that they had only heartbeats; the small band of brave artillerymen were being butchered around him, despite their bravery. Then he twisted to face the pair of Gothic riders who circled on him, longswords raised to strike. He snarled and raised his spatha, braced for the end.

But a Gothic war horn wailed across the plain. At once, the riders relaxed their sword arms, before calmly sheathing their weapons and heeling their mounts into a canter back across the plain in the direction from which they had come. Pavo’s heart thundered and his limbs trembled with fatigue, but his mind was awash with confusion as he watched their withdrawal.

Then he saw it.

On the plain, a good four hundred paces away, the backdrop of beech forest rippled. A solitary figure was there, just before the treeline, watching them. A rider, saddled on a jet-black stallion, draped in a dark-green cloak, the hood throwing shadow over the face, clutching a war horn in one hand. The hood twisted towards the clutch of bloodied Romans.

Pavo felt the figure’s unseen eyes rake on his skin.