Viper of the North

Chapter 20

‘Wake up!’ A gruff voice pierced the air.

Pavo grunted, pulling his cloak tighter to keep in the warmth.

‘Ivo is within our grasp!’ The voice continued.

Pavo sat bolt upright, as did the rest of the legionaries in the ditch and palisade encampment, blinking sleep from their eyes, squinting at the halo of sun creeping over the horizon.

Crito and Noster were standing in their midst, having been on scouting duty overnight.

‘Is it true?’ Traianus asked, a frown wrinkling his forehead.

Crito nodded excitedly, his gruff veneer dropping for once. ‘We stole past their sentries, to the tip of the Gothic camp; Ivo was there.’

Noster nodded hurriedly. ‘We overheard him talking by their campfire.’

Crito scowled at the interruption, then continued. ‘Ivo will be riding, later this afternoon, alone! Well, he and a small clutch of riders are to go hunting in the woods just northeast of here. They talked of visiting a gully where deer can be cornered and slain.’

Gallus stepped forward. ‘You are certain that they will be separated enough from the main body of the Goths?’

Crito nodded. ‘We heard it all; Fritigern is keen to press south, while Ivo hunts.’

‘Then we have our opportunity,’ Gallus looked to Traianus, ‘we cannot pass it up.’

All eyes fell on the magister militum as he hesitated. Then finally, he nodded.

Gallus’ chest swelled at this and he turned to the legionaries and riders. ‘Let’s make it count. We eat and then we pack up. Be ready to march by the time the sun’s fully up.’

The group of legionaries — starved of decisive action for weeks — cheered at this and the equites joined in. Then the men set to work; some kindling fires to cook breakfast, others saddling the mounts and gathering their arms and armour.

Pavo dropped a handful of millet grain into his cooking pot, then added a splash of water from his skin. All around him the legionaries bantered in nervous excitement. This was his chance to avenge the murder of Salvian and all the Roman citizens, to avenge the slaying of Tarquitius and the loss of that one last truth about his father. But something felt wrong.

The phalera medallion tingled on his chest, and he could not help but recall the dream where it had burned on his skin; the cave; the dead thing.

The afternoon sky over the Moesian foothills had greyed and a fine rain began to drift down over a red-earth gully. It was humid, and a whiff of damp vegetation hung in the air. All was sedate in the gully but for darting rabbits, grazing deer and swifts circling overhead. Then, like an asp, a column of legionaries emerged silently from the nearby trees.

Gallus led the column while Pavo and Sura followed, some four ranks back. Those who still possessed helmets, shields and armour had left that equipment back in the dell, choosing to wear only linen tunics, boots and swordbelts.

Pavo’s breath stilled as, suddenly, Gallus slowed, raising one hand to halt the column and placing the other on the grass. They all felt it at that moment, the distant vibrations of approaching cavalry. ‘Down!’ Gallus hissed over his shoulder.

As if playing dead, the column collapsed to their bellies on the lip of the gully, eyes peering through the grass, down into the red-earth bowl. It was empty, and there was only one level path in or out — an earth walled corridor pierced with gnarled tree roots.

Pavo looked across to the far side, but the opposite lip was deserted. Traianus and his riders were supposed to be there to complete the trap. ‘Where are they?’ He whispered to Sura.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Sura whispered beside him. ‘I can feel it too.’

Then the sound of hooves grew, echoing through the bowl of the gully. It sounded like every last Thervingi rider was coming towards them. Pavo sunk even lower in the grass, eyes fixed on the entrance corridor as the cool rain soaked his face.

Then, muted gasps were snatched back into mouths as four terrified doe raced into the gully, one with an arrow trembling in its bloodstained flanks. Then a foreign roar filled the air and Roman hearts froze.

‘Ya!’ A jagged voice cried.

The lead rider came into view first; a Goth wearing a red leather tunic with a thick beard and blonde hair flowing loose. Still moving at a gallop, the rider winked as he stretched his bow and then loosed. With a twang, the arrow zipped through the air and ripped into the wounded doe’s throat. The animal fell, hooves thrashing, blood bubbling from the wound.

Three more riders followed the archer into the gully. Ivo was the last to enter, his grey hair scooped back into a topknot, his good eye sweeping around the basin and his bronze earrings and scale vest glinting.

Pavo’s eyes hung on the vest. He frowned. It reminded him of something. Like the scales of a snake. Images of the dream came to him again, and he searched for meaning.

‘Four. . five.’ Sura whispered beside him. ‘There are only five of them!’

They watched as Ivo slid from his horse, taking up the bow from his saddle and training his sights on a terrified fawn that skipped around its mother’s corpse. The grizzled warrior loosed his arrow and then roared, punching the air in delight as the fawn’s body crumpled, its ribs shattered and its heart ruptured by the shaft. The Goths gathered up their kills, then struck up a campfire, before skinning the largest of the deer, splicing it on a spit to roast.

Gallus stared down shufflings of impatience from the legionaries, all the while darting glances to the far side of the gully; still empty. ‘We wait for the magister militum!’ The tribunus hissed.

Ivo circled the campfire, patting his men on the shoulder. Then the giant warrior carved off four slabs of meat from the animal’s haunches, handing a slice to each of them.

‘Taste the flesh, taste its sweetness, its succulence,’ he enthused. ‘Satiate your hunger on it as if it were the very corpse of the empire. For now is the time to reap the rewards for your loyalty.’ As the giant warrior spoke, he slowly untied his arm greaves.

‘This is it,’ Pavo whispered to Sura, eyes fixed on Ivo as the segments of leather armour fell to the ground. There it was, as stark as daylight; upon each of his forearms, a blue, winding snake stigma curled around his flesh.

‘The Viper!’ Sura hissed. The phrase echoed along the line of watching legionaries.

But then Ivo drew his sword and held it aloft. ‘My master and I have drawn the disparate Gothic tribes together, blending them like ore in a furnace.’

My master? Pavo’s brow wrinkled. He shared an anxious frown with Sura and Gallus.

Down below, the Goths nodded in approval, all apart from the bearded one. Ivo continued; ‘Neither Fritigern, Alatheus, Saphrax nor Athanaric for that matter, is strong enough to seize destiny alone. Thus they will be driven through Roman lands like war dogs. When they have served their purpose, they will be knocked from their thrones by the Viper, my master, the rightful iudex! Then we will be invincible!’

The Goths burst into a joyous roar at this. All apart from the one with the thick beard and flowing hair.

‘I will have no part in this,’ the Goth grunted, standing, throwing his meat into the fire. ‘A united Gothic nation is a fine aspiration, but I am loyal to Iudex Fritigern and Iudex Fritigern alone.’

‘That,’ Ivo twirled his long sword in his hand as if it was a twig, ‘is why I summoned you on this hunt. You will make a fine example.’

At once, the other three Goths shot to standing, ripping their swords from their scabbards.

The bearded Goth backed away. ‘What is this?’

Ivo stepped forward. ‘This is where you choose between Valhalla and heaven!’ Then, with a swing of his knotted arm, he brought the longsword round to hack clean through the bearded Goth’s neck. The head spun onto the ashes of the fire, eyes bulging, lips fluttering soundlessly as the man watched his own body stand, headless and spouting crimson from the stump that used to be his neck. Then the body crumpled to the ground like a felled tree and the head was consumed by flames.

With that, Ivo stabbed his sword into the ground. ‘It is time!’ He held clenched fists to the darkening clouds.

At this, Pavo looked to Gallus. The tribunus cast one last forlorn stare to the far side of the gully, then squared his jaw.

‘Ready yourselves,’ Gallus hissed, ‘surround them and make sure none escape.’

Right on cue, Pavo’s bladder seemed to swell with liquid and his mouth drained of all moisture. He and Sura glanced to one another — affirming that tacit vow that they would protect each other’s flank.

‘Go!’ Gallus hissed, rising from the grass, flicking his spatha up. At once, the gully lip rippled as the thirty legionaries — the last straggle of limitanei resistance — spilled into the crater in a wide line. They sped down the red-earth sides, racing in to the campfire in the centre.

They bit back on their usual battle cry and rushed forward in a mute charge. Pavo’s vision jostled as the form of Ivo and his men grew closer. Then he stepped on a piece of slate that snapped under his weight, and the Goths spun to the source of the noise. The three with Ivo cried out in alarm, snatching up their swords and stumbling back. At this, the Romans broke out in a roar.

In a flash of iron, the Goths were snared — spatha tips hovering at each of their throats. But Ivo did not move or go for his sword, embedded in the earth. Instead, he wore a wretched grin, bent across his face under that arrowhead of a nose. His calm gaze was trained on the approaching Romans.

The one-eyed giant waited for the Roman cry to die to nothing, then spoke with a calm voice; ‘My master and I have been aware of your scouting of us for some time. That is why we lured you here.’

‘Your poisoned words are useless now, Ivo,’ Gallus barked, then nodded to his legionaries. ‘Bind them!’

Pavo grabbed for the lengths of rope on his belt. But then he froze. His gut shrivelled as he heard the creaking of bows all around them. He looked up; the lip of the gully had darkened.

Gothic archers lined the crater; some two hundred of them, faces smeared in woad, earth and root. Their arrows were trained on the legionaries and a dark-green viper banner flitted in the breeze above their heads.

Traianus and the equites were already dead, he realised.

Traianus stilled the breath in his lungs and pressed back against the tree trunk as a band of Gothic archers flitted past the dense thicket. He stroked his mount to soothe her, anxious that a snort or a shuffle would betray his turma’s position. Then his hand flexed near his spatha hilt as he looked ahead in frustration — the lip of the gully they were supposed to be lining right now was so close yet so far.

‘They’re everywhere, hundreds of them — we’re pinned down!’ The decurion hissed behind him.

Then a roar rang out from the gully, accompanied by the iron screeching of spathas being drawn, just as the archers spilled into place around the lip. Traianus’ heart sank. They were too late. He closed his eyes, searching for a plan.

‘We can still break free of this, sir, then ride like Hades to the south,’ the decurion whispered, grappling Traianus’ arm, his grip cold and clammy with terror.

Traianus twisted round to scowl at the decurion, whose face was etched with guilt. ‘Soldier, you do not know the measure of Ivo. Long ago, when I last faced him, he slew my centurion and my contubernium. I have known many soldiers who have killed in great number — but never have I seen a man revel in bloodshed like Ivo did that day. I will not leave those legionaries to die at that man’s hands.’

But the decurion’s face had paled and his mouth hung agape as he gazed past his superior’s shoulder.

Traianus frowned. Then, a crunch of bracken sounded.

Traianus spun to face forwards again, then his blood froze.

He beheld the dark-green cloaked and hooded figure that had materialised, barely an arm’s length from him. Instinctively, he grabbed for his spatha.

But his hand froze as, all around the thicket, Gothic archers dropped down from the trees silently. Like the others, their faces were smeared in dirt, stained with woad and root, and they held arrows nocked to their bows, trained on the equites.

Traianus’ gaze darted all around him, then fell upon the shadows under the green hood. His heart hammered. ‘This cannot be real; I saw you die. . ’

Then a voice rasped from within the hood. ‘Yes, I remember that day on the wharf well. You fought bravely, Roman. . ’

Pavo stared numbly at the ground before him. The legionaries around him were equally silent. On Ivo’s word, they would be rent with hundreds of Gothic arrows.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw something move, up on the lip of the gully. Pavo looked up to see that the chosen archers had parted. A clutch of Roman corpses were pushed forward through the gap, throats slit, mail vests and tunics stained crimson, limbs flailing as they tumbled down the gully side. So Traianus’ equites had fought their last. But there was one survivor; one Roman was bundled forward, hands bound, teeth gritted, snarling like a caged animal and shaking with rage as he skidded down the gully side.

Traianus.

But Pavo saw the magister militum and the chosen archers as just a blur, for his gaze snapped onto something else. It was as if the undergrowth had come to life; a dark-green shape rippled, emerging from the green of the forest to step down into the gully. An icy finger traced Pavo’s spine as the hooded and cloaked figure strode across the gully floor. The shadow where a face should have been seemed fixed on them as it approached.

Now there could be no doubt; the Viper was all too real.

Then the figure stopped before them. Ivo and the three Gothic hunters knelt before it.

‘Master,’ Ivo whispered, clutching a hand across his heart.

The green-cloaked figure lifted a finger and then swiped it down. At once, the Gothic archers lining the gully rushed forward to begin binding the hands of the legionaries.

Pavo’s thoughts spun.

Traianus was barged to his knees before the Viper. ‘It cannot be — I saw Iudex Anzo slain, his throat torn out and his body drained of blood!’ He croaked, squinting up at the shadows under the hood. ‘Who are you?’

At this, a rasping laughter poured from the shadows. Then the Viper carefully took hold of each side of the hood, drawing it back.

Gasps rang out from the legionaries.

Pavo’s breath caught in his throat, and his mind refused to believe what he saw; the fawn locks, the blade-sharp cheekbones and the piercing green eyes. And then the half-mouthed grin. Then the cloak dropped from the figure’s shoulders and fell to the ground. He was bare-chested underneath, with a lean but muscular torso, and a spiralling snake stigma curling round his shoulders, one of which bore an old, gnarled spatha wound.

‘Salvian?’

Salvian’s gaze was baleful, and then he shook his head, ever so slowly. ‘The guise of a Roman ambassador was an expedient facet; one of many I have grown like a skin since my early years. I have been Peleus the trader, Vetranio the smith, and Leptis the gladiator.’

Pavo frowned; his thoughts grew hazy and the ground beneath his feet seemed to sway. Then he looked to Gallus, whose face had paled. Then he glanced to Traianus; the magister militum stared at Salvian, brow deeply furrowed, eyes haunted.

‘No!’ Traianus uttered. ‘It cannot be. . ’

‘Cannot be what?’ Gallus gasped, shooting glances to Traianus and then Salvian. ‘What is this?’

‘Tell them, Roman,’ Salvian spoke evenly, his gaze fixed on Traianus.

Traianus cast a distant and defeated gaze. ‘This man is no ambassador and certainly no Roman. He is Draga the Goth, son and heir of Iudex Anzo. He is the Viper.’

‘Now you know,’ Draga spoke softly, turning to Pavo.

Pavo felt his heart grow cold. A bitter sorrow stung behind his eyes as he turned back to this man he had, only weeks ago, grieved for as he had done for his father. Then his eyes fell upon the discarded cloak. Suddenly, that dream of the cave came back to him. Where the man he had known as Salvian had been standing, the slippery, lifeless, segmented sheath that had been shed was just that; one of the many skins of the Viper. ‘Draga. . ’ he muttered, numbly.

Then Gallus erupted. He barged towards the Viper but was hauled back by the Goths binding his wrists. They kicked at his legs, forcing him onto his knees. ‘The forging of the emperor’s message, the slaying of the grain column, the assassination attempt on Fritigern, the murder of the Roman citizens I entrusted to your care,’ Gallus snorted, ‘it was all your doing. And the sortie to and flight from Dardarus, it was all a sham, wasn’t it?’

Draga nodded gently, as if he had just been paid a compliment. ‘Before Dardarus, I was nothing to you and your legion; afterwards, I was at the heart of your every move, trusted like a veteran. I knew that shedding blood with you that day would buy me this trust, just as I knew that you would not pass up on the opportunity to come here today, to snare Ivo.’

Gallus’ top lip wrinkled and betrayed a low growl. ‘So. . you are in league with Athanaric?’ He spat.

Draga’s grin sharpened and he shook his head. ‘Athanaric was but a die in my hand, Tribunus, just as you were. I harnessed his hatred for Fritigern and ensured he would not stand with his equal against the Huns.’ He stepped forward and rasped; ‘And now Fritigern too is another die in my palm. His armies will fight for my wants, even if they do not realise it. Every day their ranks swell — as does their appetite for conquest!’

Gallus twisted his face away from Draga, his teeth gritted in impotent rage as his hands were bound.

With that, Draga turned and clasped forearms with Ivo and then the pair embraced. ‘I have longed for this day since I pulled myself, weak, freezing and bloodied, from the waters of the Golden Horn. Every day I spent, exiled in their city in the guise of a Roman citizen, witnessing their arrogance, the vileness of their nobility, their heinous crimes of war against my people,’ he stopped, wide-eyed, to stab a finger at Traianus, ‘or what would you call your legions’ spilling of oceans of Gothic blood — valorous, glorious. . expedient?’ The veins in Draga’s neck pulsed against his skin, bringing the snake stigma to life. His teeth were bared like a hungry predator as he spat these last words, trembling with rage; ‘Every time. . I dreamt of this moment.’

‘And I promised you I would devote myself to realising that dream,’ Ivo replied.

Steadying himself with a few deep breaths, Draga nodded. ‘And it will be even greater than we had imagined.’ He swept a hand across the circle of legionaries. ‘For not only am I on the cusp of scything into the heart of the empire, I now also have the commander of the eastern legions.’ He sneered at Traianus. ‘You are a fool, Magister Militum, for you have wandered into my grasp. Now you will tell me of the legions your emperor has sent from the east. Then they will be swept to their deaths like kindling in a rainstorm.’

Pavo gazed at the ground and felt one of the Gothic archers fumbling to bind his wrists. In his peripheral vision, he saw Ivo and Draga punch the air, rallying their men. At once, the gully was filled with Gothic victory cries and the green viper banner was pumped in the air. Then Pavo’s gaze settled on Ivo’s longsword, still dug into the earth. The phalera on his chest weighed heavily as he realised that all hope was gone. But a thought sparked in his mind;

If all hope was gone, then what was there to lose?

With a roar, Pavo threw his head back, his skull crashing into the archer’s jaw. Then he pulled his hands free of the rope and lunged forward, plucking the sword from the dirt, swinging the blade up towards. . Salvian?

A gasp rang out from the watching legionaries as the sword tip halted, resting against Draga’s neck. Through gritted teeth, Pavo panted, gaze fixed on the sharp eyes, the half-mouthed smile and the earnest expression. ‘Why?’ He uttered, before Ivo batted the sword from his grasp, pressing a dagger to his throat.

‘No,’ Draga said.

‘Master?’ Ivo twisted round, frowning.

A distant hope sparked in Pavo’s heart. Then Draga’s face curled with an awful half-grin and at once, the hope was gone.

‘Let him live for today. Let them all live. They will be marched like cattle at the head of our people, and their flayed bodies will serve as a portent of what will become of those who resist. Then, perhaps those who do not die of thirst can be slain for our amusement or,’ his eyes glinted as he fixed his gaze on Pavo, ‘perhaps they can serve as our slaves?’

‘Yes, master,’ Ivo grinned.

Pavo heard the words as a distant echo. Then he felt the wind being knocked from his lungs as a spearshaft butted into his back. He crumpled to his knees, spitting bile. This time a group of the Gothic archers set about wrenching thick rope around his wrists and tied him to the chain of the other Romans.

Draga stepped forward and looked to the horizon as a warm wind whipped the spray of rain across the gully. ‘And now we march south, for there is a harvest to be reaped.’ He glared at Pavo and the legionaries with a manic sparkle in his eyes.

‘Yes, the empire will pay for its crimes.’

He grasped the viper banner and held it aloft.

‘The Viper has risen once again. Now Roman blood will flow, and it will flow like the Mother River!’