Viper of the North

Chapter 23

Pavo hesitated for a moment, panting. His hands were bleeding and coated in grey dust and his neck was burnt from the sun. He eyed the peak of the mountain; a jagged limestone ridge some fifty feet up. Though it felt like it hadn’t got any closer for the last hour. Then his gaze locked onto a lone mountain goat stood near the peak, munching on a shrub, eyeing him with disdain. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the rock face.

‘Pavo, come on; we should have turned back long before now!’ Sura rasped from below. ‘The sun’s dropping.’

They had set off from the base of this, what had initially looked like a modest mountain in the Haemus range, at mid-afternoon, and not for the first time since then, doubt danced in Pavo’s mind. But again from the other side of the mountain a clash of iron rang out, along with cheering and a jagged Gothic rabble. Above the craggy limestone peak, woodsmoke plumed into the orange-tinged sky.

‘Then let it drop!’ He spat back, flushing the doubt from his thoughts. ‘I’m not turning back now; they’re right over that crest.’

‘And?’ His friend replied dryly, shooting nervous glances to the noise. ‘We need to get back, to alert the legions. If we are killed then the legions will never know the whereabouts of the Gothic camp!’

Pavo twisted round, a foul expression on his face. ‘You climb down and ride back, then, and report that Pavo is being a stubborn whoreson. But I’m not leaving until I’ve found her.’

Sura groaned and wiped his hands over his face. ‘Felicia? Look, Pavo, I’m with you in that I want to see her safe. But do you really think we have a chance in Hades of freeing her from the horde that lies in wait over that ridge?’

Pavo held Sura’s pleading gaze in silence. Then he drew his dagger, clamped the blade between his teeth, turned back to the rock face and scrambled on and up.

A groan sounded behind him. ‘Slow down, will you?’

He turned to see Sura scurrying after him, scowling.

‘I can’t leave you to get skewered, can I?’ Sura fumed. With that, the pair continued their climb.

They halted for breath momentarily when at last they reached the top of the mountain. There, a welcome, stiff breeze hit them from the east, ruffling Sura’s blonde locks and cooling Pavo’s freshly shorn scalp. After this brief rest, they stalked over to crouch behind a large limestone cairn and peeked over the top.

The land in the valley below was awash with Goths.

Soldiers carried piles of longswords, composite bows and armour, stacking them high, while others groomed their warhorses. It was coldly reminiscent of the Roman camp — except there were far more Gothic warriors. Amongst it all, families milled around, cooking stews, pleating hair, darning and scrubbing clothes. Pavo winced as he saw one Gothic woman washing a pile of robes in a barrel of water, her children tugging at her hem demanding she played with them; it was all too similar to the amber-haired Roman woman at the brook by Ad Salices, yesterday. Many innocents would die in what was to come.

Then an elbow jabbed his ribs. ‘I’d wager that that’s where you want to start looking,’ Sura growled, solemnly.

Pavo followed the line of Sura’s outstretched finger; the Gothic camp was so vast it spilled through the grey-green pillars of the mountains into the next valley, where a huddle of bedraggled Roman captives were being marshalled across the flatland towards a group of assembled wagons. His heart stilled as he saw the bald, stocky man who owned the wagons handing over a hefty purse to the Goths who herded the sorry figures.

‘Slave traders! Romans! Buying their own kind when the empire is crumbling around them!’ Sura gasped. ‘Have they no shame?’

Pavo bit into his lower lip as a bitter boyhood memory flitted through his thoughts; that day in the slave market in Constantinople when he himself had been paraded in front of nobles and senators like a cut of meat before that fat reprobate Tarquitius had bought him. The very idea of Felicia being subjected to some lecherous, abusive master sent a wave of fire through his heart.

Then Sura slapped a hand on his shoulder, jolting him from his thoughts. ‘Sentries! Get down!’

Pavo ducked, then peeked over the rock pile to see the Gothic spearmen dotted along the narrow, high mountain paths that wove around the camp. There were two every few hundred feet, and a tall and broad-shouldered pair were approaching the cairn. He sized their red leather tunics and conical helmets, his eyes narrowing as he noticed how the helmets shaded their faces. ‘Right, if they come this side of the cairn, they’re out of the line of sight of the rest of the sentries and we can take them. If they go the other side, we wait.’

Sura nodded, flexing his fingers on his dagger hilt.

The pair of sentries strolled closer, joking in their jagged tongue. Pavo readied himself to spring like a cat. But the sentries veered away from the cairn, staying within view of their people. He stifled a curse and dug his nails into his palms. He looked to Sura, then the dropping sun. Doubt laced his thoughts.

Then, an impatient snort from the mountain goat pierced the air. He held his breath; the banter of the two Goths had stopped dead. Then sharp words were hissed, laced with suspicion. Then footsteps ground on the dust either side of the cairn and they heard the sentries’ shallow breaths. Pavo looked to Sura, then they both nodded, each turning to an edge of the cairn.

The two sentries stalked past the stone pile, eyes wide, spears reaching out as they looked down the mountainside. One laughed, pointing to the goat, visibly relaxing. ‘Dinner!’ He bellowed. But the other Goth’s eyes were locked on the mare and gelding tethered far below. ‘Romans?’ He uttered, glancing around for the missing riders.

Pavo leapt at him, wrapping one arm around his neck. The pair fell onto the ground, entangled and thrashing. Pavo brought a sweet right jab down on the Goth’s cheekbone and the man’s head thudded against a sharp rock and he fell still. Then he spun to Sura, who was locked in a struggle with the other Goth, each of them wrestling for control of Sura’s dagger. Seeing Pavo come for them, the Goth forced the dagger towards Sura’s throat. But Sura flicked his head to the side and headbutted the man, who staggered back, dropping the dagger. Sura caught the weapon by the blade, flicked it over to grasp its hilt, then sunk it into the Goth’s heart.

Panting, Sura wiped his blade on the grass.

Pavo eyed the dead pair, then glanced left and right. His heart thundered as he saw two more sentries, only a few hundred feet away. He kicked grey dust over the spilled blood and in the dusk light it was disguised, but the corpses lay stubbornly before him. He glanced around; down the mountain, near the troublesome goat, an outcrop of limestone offered a slim chance to avoid detection.

He stooped and wrenched one Goth up and over his shoulder. ‘Grab the other one,’ he wheezed to Sura.

As the light faded in the mountain valley, Felicia watched the latest slave cart depart. It was packed with Romans, some nobles, some freedmen, all levelled to slaves now. She pulled at the filthy and frayed hem of her robe and eyed the two who stood before her in the line: a young lad and a pretty Roman woman. Then she would be next, she figured. Before dusk another cart would come and she would be taken away. Yet she cared little for her future. It was the memories of the past few weeks that consumed her every waking thought, and her chest still felt raw and hollow from weeping. She had set out to avenge her brother’s murder. Instead she had lost everything.

Everything.

She had fled the plain of Marcianople when it was clear the city would fall. Her mount was small but swift, enough to outride the handful of Gothic horse archers who had pursued her some of the way. Then, upon cresting the rise and entering the plain north of the city, she spotted the chain of thousands of Roman citizens — the refugees from Durostorum and all the northern towns. They were headed for the timber bridge across the River Beli Lom but they looked this way and that as if in search of a leader. Then, a rider on a jet-black stallion had burst over the ridge from the city to take his place at the head of the column. At this, the citizens had cheered. It was the ambassador, Salvian — Pavo’s good friend.

The man had immediately set about marshalling the column manfully with only a handful of legionary scouts, scribes and heralds to aid him. Hope had danced in her heart as she had raced to join the exodus. But then she had slowed her mount, seeing Salvian halt the rabble in the centre of the wide plain, a long way from the bridge. Then her veins had filled with dread as Gothic riders appeared from nowhere to encircle the refugees. She had barely been able to watch as Salvian stepped towards the lead rider, but she frowned when the ambassador wordlessly raised a hand and extended one finger. He had held it there for a moment, then swiped it down. As soon as he did so, the Gothic cavalry noose snapped shut. She had turned from the sight as the blades struck home and the screaming had started. Then, when she had heeled her mount round to flee the plain, the breath had stilled in her lungs: Salvian remained where he had stood, unharmed and watching the massacre. Then he had drawn a blood-soaked, dark-green cloak from his satchel and slipped it over his shoulders, raising the hood, before taking up a longsword and joining in the slaughter with the Goths.

Numb, she had fled from the plain at a full gallop and let up only when her mount was exhausted. Then she had hidden in a cave in the foothills, wary of the numerous columns of smoke in every direction and the distant din of battle that seemed to dance on the spring breeze. On the first night she had caught and skinned a rabbit, then roasted the animal over a small fire before devouring it and washing it down with streamwater. The next morning, she had readied to ride for Adrianople, to find Father, when a group of Gothic cavalry had thundered past her hideout, roaring gleefully, severed Roman heads mounted on their speartips like trophies. So she had hidden for another two days. Then, on the third day, the chaos across the land seemed to have lessened just a little. So she leapt on her mount and rode without pause until Adrianople came into view.

Its proud skyline of domes and marbled columns dominated the verdant flatland, and her heart had soared when she saw the city was intact. But something was wrong, she realised. The thick, towering walls were devoid of the usual generous garrison. Instead, only a handful of intercisas were visible. And then she caught scent of it; an acrid tang of burning flesh. Her heart slowed as she approached the gates, and the cluster of limitanei rushed to the gate top to challenge her. ‘I’m looking for my father,’ she had said, ‘he came here from Durostorum to escape the Gothic incursions.’

The drawn, weary look of resignation on the lead soldier’s face told Felicia what had happened before he said the words to confirm it. They had let her inside the city, where the trail of destruction was still fresh, as was the massive pile of ash where the pyre had been lit. ‘Aye, the innkeeper from the northern limes? He was a brave soul — tried to stop the riots,’ the limitanei legionary had said, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder, ‘but the Goths and the Roman mob were merciless.’

And so she had walked from the city, numb to her core. Then she had mounted her horse and set off at an aimless canter, unaware of time, heat and cold, hunger and thirst, staring through the horizon as she moved. She barely noticed the group of Gothic riders who circled around her until they wrenched her from the mount and roped her wrists together. ‘Another Roman bitch — she’ll fetch a few coins!’ The rider had joked with his comrades.

A pained shriek pulled her back to the present; the slave line had shrunk once more. She looked up to see the pretty Roman woman being dragged away from the front of the line by the hair, her protests silenced when the slave trader balled his fist and smashed it into her jaw. Felicia felt numb.

With her father dead, Pavo surely slain, and her world torn asunder by the invasion, her heart had grown weary of aching. She stared through the ground before her and sought out her father and Curtius’ faces from her memories. She barely flinched when a Goth came over and sliced a dagger through the rope joining her wrist to that of the young Roman. The young man protested angrily, the fear causing his voice to crack.

‘You’re needed,’ the Goth snarled. Then, eyeing the man’s finely manicured nails, he grinned. ‘Time to learn how to shovel dung!’

As the panicked young man was bundled away like a dog, Felicia realised she had not muttered a word nor tried to wrench free of her bonds in days. Then, when she heard the next slave cart approach, its wheels grinding on the scree, she simply shuffled forward.

‘Pick out the ones who will make good whores!’ The slavemaster called out to his helpers in a broad Greek accent. The Goths erupted in a chorus of laughter at this.

Felicia didn’t even have the will to despise the man. She held out her wrists, readying to be taken away, gazing to the ground through a veil of stale tears.

Then a hand grappled at her wrist.

‘Hold on, we’ll have a bit of fun with this one first,’ a gravelly voice muttered, then sliced the ropes binding her to the others.

In a flash, she was pulled past the slave cart and back through the sea of tents and crackling campfires, towards the southerly edge of the camp. She frowned and looked up to the pair who pulled her on; they wore red leather tunics and conical helmets — spearmen. Suddenly, a spark of fear ignited in her heart and she pulled back. ‘Where are you taking me?’ She spat, sickened by the trembling in her voice.

The two simply dragged her onwards.

Then she felt it; the old fire in her veins — it felt good. She yanked back on the rope and kicked out at the backside of the nearest of the two. ‘I said — where are you taking me?’

The Goths all around burst into a rabble of laughter at this and at last, the pair slowed, then turned to her. Her skin crawled as their shadowy faces beheld her. Then her heart skipped a beat and her lungs froze mid-breath. Pavo, Sura! She mouthed.

‘Stay quiet,’ Pavo spoke in that forced, gravelly tone, his head bowed a little and the rim of the Gothic helmet casting his dark eyes in shadow.

She nodded quickly and dropped her gaze to the ground.

‘Good little whore, eh? What did you say to her?’ One Goth called out gleefully, swigging from a wineskin.

Felicia sneaked a look up to see Pavo giving the man a furtive nod, while Sura glanced around, checking who was watching. Of the two, Sura could possibly pass as a Goth, but Pavo’s dark features and beaky nose clearly distinguished him as a Roman. Indeed, a few of the nearby warriors seemed to be frowning, scouring his features. She looked around in vain for something, anything to distract them. Then her eyes fell on the bronze pin holding her tattered robe together. Father had given her that pin, and she whispered a prayer to him as she pulled it from the cloth. Her robe fell to the ground, leaving her wearing only a short linen tunic that barely covered her buttocks.

‘My robe!’ She whimpered.

At once the Goths’ frowns dissolved, their stares flicking to Felicia’s ample, bare thighs.

Never fails, she mused.

And they were at the edge of the Gothic camp now, she realised, looking up to see the cairn on the crest of the mountain before them. Pavo and Sura glanced around, then the three made to ascend the rise. But although Pavo and Sura carried on and started climbing, pulling her with them, she felt an odd burning on the skin on her back.

Someone was watching them.

She turned and swept her eyes across the sea of warriors and families, bustling in the torchlight, all busying themselves with their own affairs. Then her gaze stopped, like a tunic caught on a nail, on one figure.

The one they now called Draga — the dark creature who had slain those Roman refugees on the plain before the River Beli Lom — was standing in the midst of the Goths, wrapped in his dark-green cloak, hood lowered. He was staring at them, the firelight dancing in his eyes.

His lips were curled up in an awful half-grin.

In the centre of the darkened tent, Senator Tarquitius touched a finger to the cracked blisters on his lips, his chains clanking as he did so. Then he pulled out the folds of his tunic that hung limply from his body. He had not been this slim since he was a boy, he mused bitterly. Weeks of eating what scraps Draga had brought to him had seen the rolls of fat wither, leaving sagging layers of empty skin in their place. Perhaps it would have been better had he been slain in Marcianople, he wondered. The thought lent him a modicum of dignity. It felt strange to him after so many years of immorality.

The muffled laughter of a Gothic warrior outside startled him. This reminded him just how lost he was — here in the middle of a sea of tents and an army that would raze everything Roman within its path. He looked at the chains on his wrists and felt a mix of bitterness and self-pity tug at his heart.

Then he stiffened his jaw as he mulled over it again; the chain of events that had tortured his every moment in this tent, the face of the man who had led him like a stray dog in his every action.

Salvian. . Draga. . the Viper. The protege who had in fact been the master.

He searched for some caveat that would dampen the shame he felt at being fooled so readily, but found none. Then he heard the voice of some girl outside.

‘My robe!’ She squealed.

Tarquitius’ ears perked up as he recognised her Greek twang. Welcoming the distraction, he shuffled on his hands and knees to the tent flap, as far as the chains would allow him. Then he pushed his nose and eyes through the flap and squinted into the dusk light. There, near the base of the mountain, two Gothic soldiers seemed to be leading a flame-haired girl towards the mountainside. But, some thirty paces away, he saw it; the green cloaked figure drifting wraith-like between the tents, following the trio. Unhooded and now sporting a thick fawn moustache and flowing fawn locks, Draga looked like any other Goth. Apart from the cold, green eyes — something about them was inhuman.

He watched in a mix of interest and terror as the Viper was careful to stay some distance behind the three, one hand on his sword hilt, the other seemingly ready to shoot in the air as if to raise the alarm. But something was stopping him from doing so.

The two soldiers and the girl disappeared on up the mountain path, and Draga remained, watching them for a moment. Then he spun round, eyes snapping onto the tent and Tarquitius’ filthy, drawn features.

Tarquitius yelped like a kicked dog and scrambled back inside the tent. As footsteps approached, he muttered to himself, eyes screwed shut, praying that the darkness inside would hide him. Then the flapping of hide and a blast of fresh air was followed by the hissing of the Viper, right by his ear. Tarquitius could feel the man’s breath on his skin, but refused to open his eyes.

‘It seems I have a use for you after all, Senator.’

Campfires and torches lit up the dusk like a cloud of fireflies across the Roman encampment. Inside the stable compound, Pavo helped Felicia down from her saddle while Sura fed a clump of hay to his mount.

‘He saw us, I swear it!’ Felicia repeated.

‘Why would he let us escape?’ Pavo replied, stroking her hair to comfort her. Because he’s playing a game, because he’s still in control. Pavo shuddered and batted the nagging doubt from his thoughts.

Felicia shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen a man look so. . driven. He’ll do anything, Pavo, anything it takes. I saw him turn upon all those citizens. He was merciless. . ’

‘Forget about him,’ he said, trying desperately to rid his own mind of Draga’s image, ‘You’re here now, you’re safe.’

She pushed away from him, her voice cracking. ‘I’m alone, Pavo. Apart from you, I have nobody.’ She choked back a sob.

At this, Sura gave Pavo a knowing nod, and led both the horses away to the feeding trough, leaving them alone.

Pavo turned back to her, his heart aching. ‘Your father would have gladly died to be sure you were not harmed, Felicia.’

‘And now he and Curtius are both just memories,’ she said, her voice hoarse.

He pulled her close again. ‘You have me, Felicia. I’ll not rest until you are safe, and clear of this conflict.’

She looked up to him, her eyes red-rimmed, face glistening with tears. ‘I cannot avenge my father’s death, but my brother’s killer walks free, within the walls of this camp.’

Pavo’s heart sank.

‘I don’t care what becomes of me anymore,’ she continued, her lips curling to reveal gritted teeth. ‘I must take vengeance so that Curtius’ spirit can rest in peace. Avitus must pay!’

He grappled her arms and shook her. ‘Felicia!’ He barked.

At once, her eyes widened in shock at his tone, as if she had been snapped from a trance.

Pavo pinned her with his gaze. ‘You saw the might of the Gothic army, didn’t you? When they come to war with us,’ when Draga decides the time is right, the doubting voice rasped in his mind, ‘then everyone, everyone in this camp will be at the mercy of their swords. Come the new moon,’ he swept a hand around the Roman camp, ‘every soul within these walls could be carrion.’

She nodded. ‘For some, that would be deserved.’

Pavo sighed. ‘Then let the coming battle decide who lives and who dies, please! Do this for me?’

She closed her eyes and gulped back a sob. Time seemed to stand still. Then she nodded.

Pavo felt sweet relief flood through his veins. ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ he affirmed. ‘Now, for Mithras’ sake, I’m begging you to leave here tonight, for Constantinople. All that lies south of this camp is still firm imperial territory — you will not meet trouble from any Goth.’ He pressed his purse into her hand. ‘There is enough coin here to buy you a room; go to Vibius, the landlord of the tenements near the Saturninus Gate. He is a decent man. . well, better than most.’

She breathed deeply, composing herself, blinking as she wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘So in the end I am to leave it all behind, let the Goths take vengeance on my behalf?’ She said wryly, taking the purse. Then, at last, she nodded. ‘Aye, perhaps Father and Curtius would have wanted this.’

‘I know they would, Felicia. I didn’t know Curtius, but your father used to give me this look like a serrated blade,’ he stopped and shook his head, cocking an eyebrow. ‘You meant everything to him.’ He then grasped the tether of a medium bay stallion and led the beast from its stable. ‘Now ride; ride and don’t stop.’

She looked into his eyes. ‘Find the truth for me, Pavo, I beg of you.’

He nodded.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and he cupped his hands around her waist, and they pressed their lips together. Despite her bedraggled state, her scent was still sweet as honey to Pavo, and her tousled amber locks felt like silk, whispering on his bare arms. At last, they pulled apart. ‘Now ride,’ he insisted, helping her onto the saddle. ‘When this is all over, I’ll come for you.’

She looked back at him wistfully. He bit back the hard lump in his throat.

Then, her face broke into a partial grin that pushed through her sadness. For the first time in so long, she looked every inch like the mischievous, carefree girl he had fallen for. ‘You’d bloody better,’ she winked, gulping back a sob, ‘or there’ll be trouble.’

With that, she heeled the mount into a canter, off through the Roman camp, towards the South gate.

Pavo watched her amber locks dance in her wake, and realised her grin had been infectious.

Then, as the sound of the stallion’s hooves faded, he heard barking officers and a smashing of iron; based on he and Sura’s sighting of the Gothic camp and their readiness for battle, extra combat training and formation drills were taking place in torchlight all across the camp. The grin faded from his face.

Every soul within these walls was readying to face the Viper’s wrath.

It was the dead of night and Pavo’s mind would not rest. He shuffled from his cot to drink from his water skin, then headed for the tent flap. He stopped for a moment to glance back into the tent, casting a jealous eye over the snoring soldiers — Sura being the worst offender in Quadratus’ absence — then he slipped outside into the night. It would not be long until dawn, he realised, gazing at the waxing moon. The air was fresh and the cricket song was in full flow. He breathed deeply and slowly, in through his nostrils, holding the breath in his lungs for a count of four and then exhaling through his lips, hoping the exercise would calm the circus of angst in his mind. And it did, momentarily, until he remembered that it was Draga who had taught him the technique. He shook the thought away with a low growl.

He saw big Zosimus, Felix and Quadratus sitting around one campfire, the three murmuring in conversation whilst absently toasting bread in the flames. Rest had clearly evaded them too.

‘Can’t sleep, soldier?’ A familiar voice spoke from the shadows.

Pavo turned to see Gallus. The tribunus was standing, looking up at the moon. His gaunt features were semi-illuminated, and one hand grappled a small, carved wooden idol of Mithras. ‘Not a wink, sir.’

Gallus issued a dry chuckle and turned his gaze from the moon to Pavo. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever slept when danger has been this close.’

Pavo nodded in silence, recalling the rumours from some of the legionaries. They reckoned that Gallus slept rarely — regardless of the presence of danger — plagued by nightmares that would see him waken, screaming, calling some woman’s name. He thought of his own recurring, tortured dream of his father, and the lost truth that was surely buried with Senator Tarquitius’ ashes in the ruins inside Marcianople. They each had their own troubles, he realised, but one was common to them both.

‘You’re still troubled by him, aren’t you? Salvian, Draga, the Viper,’ Gallus asked as if reaching the same conclusion.

Pavo nodded. ‘Aye, troubled and ashamed. I once thought I was a sound judge of character.’

Gallus turned to him with sadness in his eyes. ‘That creature fooled us all, Pavo. And not just the legions; it seems he has dined and dealt with the empire’s finest for years, and all of them saw only a charismatic man and a fine speaker,’ he snorted at this. ‘Traianus says some of the senators who have visited the camp in recent weeks swear blind that he was a passionate Roman.’

‘Then I’ll perhaps find room in my thoughts to pity them, either once this is all over, or when I’m walking in Elysium,’ Pavo muttered.

Gallus cocked an eyebrow. ‘A year in the ranks has dried you to the core, I see.’

‘Aye,’ Pavo replied, thumbing his phalera medallion, thinking of the grizzled Crito, ‘another hardened veteran with a sorry tale to tell.’

Gallus nodded to the fire, where Zosimus was now mid-flow through some tale of the time he caught his wife’s brother having a romantic evening with a goat. ‘I’ll be glad to have them in the ranks beside me, when it comes to it.’

Pavo looked over to the veteran legionaries, grinning as the sordid detail poured forth from Zosimus’ lips. The big centurion’s eyes were bulging, his tongue poking out as he made a pelvic thrusting gesture and grappled at an imaginary goat. Quadratus roared in laughter at this while Felix winced.

‘They were like you and Sura when I first soldiered with them; reckless, all-too-eager, seemingly never happy unless mired in trouble.’ Gallus hesitated momentarily. ‘So I thank Mithras you pair will be on my side as well.’

Pavo turned to him, emotion swirling in his chest. ‘And I thank him that you’ll be leading us, sir,’ he replied after a pause. Gallus cocked an eyebrow at this, but Pavo was sure that through the shadows he could make out a hint of a smile on the tribunus’ lips.

‘Anyway, I came here to find you.’

‘Sir?’

‘You may be interested to know that a refugee arrived at the camp, not long after you returned from scouting,’ Gallus continued. ‘He claims to have been released by the Goths.’ Gallus’ features hardened. ‘Senator Tarquitius has returned to us, Pavo.’

Pavo’s stomach fell away. ‘He’s alive?’

‘He must have been suckling on Fortuna’s tits; it seems he can either cheat death. . or he’s still tangled in all of this.’

Pavo’s gaze darted across the ground before him. For all Tarquitius’ failings, the news of his survival was like a sweet cordial to Pavo. The key to the riddle of his father was not lost after all. He looked up to Gallus. ‘But he was. . is in league with Draga and Ivo, I’m sure of it. He’s the one who delivered the forged scroll, he’s the one who let the Viper in to Marcianople.’

Gallus nodded. ‘Of that, no doubt remains. A litany of evidence is piled up against him; remnants of the garrison of Sardica have claimed he tried to bribe them into deserting the city’s defences. And a scroll he sent to Athanaric tells of what he had planned after that. He reeks of treachery. That’s why he is in chains right now, as we speak.’

‘Then surely he will be executed?’ Pavo frowned.

‘I assure you, he will be. But not yet.’ Gallus looked to him, searching Pavo’s eyes, then glancing to the phalera. ‘I asked for a stay of execution; I believe you and he have unfinished business?’

Pavo’s heart swelled. ‘We do.’

Gallus nodded to him. ‘Then finish that business tonight. Whatever happens, happens.’

Pavo nodded, the blood thundering in his veins. ‘Yes, sir!’

Pavo crept through the cluster of contubernium tents, then crouched as he reached the centre of the camp. The tent up ahead, a stone’s throw from the principia, was guarded by two legionaries. Inside he would find Tarquitius. And the bastard deserves everything he gets, Pavo affirmed, teeth gritting, his fingers flexing on his spatha hilt.

He took a deep breath, slipped the spatha under his tunic, then stood tall and approached the tent.

‘Ave,’ he greeted the two shadowy legionaries tentatively.

The smaller of the two legionaries stepped forward. It was Optio Avitus — just as Gallus had arranged.

‘Ave, Pavo,’ Avitus replied, the light falling on his stony features.

Pavo saw the weary sadness in the little optio’s eyes — a similar look to that Gallus wore only moments ago — and wondered if troubled thoughts were endemic within the camp. The difference was that Pavo was almost certain that he knew what Avitus’ troubles were. Felicia’s words rang in his mind. Find the truth for me, Pavo, I beg of you. But now was not the time to broach the subject.

He nodded to Avitus. ‘Gallus said you’d be expecting me?’

‘Aye,’ Avitus replied, then nodded to the wide-eyed legionary who stood guard with him. ‘Noster, go to the north gate and wait by the watchtower.’

‘Sir?’ Noster replied, frowning.

‘That’s an order,’ Avitus replied evenly.

As the young legionary trudged off, Pavo nodded to Avitus and then made to duck inside the tent. But the optio grappled his bicep, pulling him back.

Pavo frowned, his heart racing, locked in a gaze with the optio.

‘You’re a good lad, Pavo,’ he said, his eyes moistening. ‘Be aware that what you do in there tonight will live with you forever.’

Pavo’s gaze drifted away to the tent flap and then back to Avitus. He nodded slowly and in silence. With that, Avitus released his grip and followed Noster to the north gate.

Pavo turned to the tent and entered. Inside it was warm, silent and bathed in shadows. A shape sat on a bench at the far end. In the gloom, Pavo saw a haggard, drawn, sagging caricature of the man who had once been his master.

Tarquitius was lost in a muttering monologue, his eyes distant. ‘I’ve dined at the imperial palace. I’ve advised the emperor in matters military and civilian.’ He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘I’ve had the empire’s fate in my grasp, like an insect. But still I was bested by him. The man is a demon!’

Pavo stood before the senator, then pulled his spatha from his tunic. At this, the senator looked up as if awakening from a deep sleep.

‘Pavo?’ Tarquitius spoke softly. Then his gaze fell on the spatha and his eyes bulged. ‘Pavo!’ he squealed.

Pavo clamped his palm over the senator’s mouth, then with his free hand he hefted the sword overhead. He fixed his gaze on the terrified eyes of Tarquitius, then brought the blade smashing down.

All was silent, and then the cleaved chains slithered from the bench, and Tarquitius held up his hands, mouth agape. ‘You’ve freed me?’

‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ Pavo sneered. ‘But do not get any ideas — I will slice out your heart if you do not do exactly as I say. Now, walk with me!’

Pavo bundled the emaciated figure from the tent. Then he drove him on with the tip of the spatha towards the north wall of the camp, picking a path of shadows amongst the tents. They came to a halt by a patch of darkened ground near the palisade. Pavo glanced around; they were out of sight of each of the nearest watchtowers. This would be perfect, he affirmed.

‘Now,’ Pavo said, steadying himself, squaring his shoulders, ‘tell me of my father.’

Tarquitius’ eyes widened, and he shook his head regretfully, the slack skin of his jowls wobbling. ‘I will die if I do.’

Pavo brought the spatha to rest against the senator’s neck, ready to swipe. ‘You will certainly die if you do not — by my blade here and now or by execution for your treachery in a matter of days.’

‘Then I am to die. . ’ he muttered, his gaze growing distant again.

‘No, there is another option.’ Pavo clapped his hands three times. From the darkness, Sura appeared, stony-faced. He led a chestnut gelding by its tether over to the pair, then disappeared again, leaving the beast. As the senator’s brow wrinkled in confusion, Pavo continued. ‘The guards have been told to expect that a lone rider will be leaving the camp tonight,’ he held out the reins to Tarquitius. ‘Tell me and you live.’

Tarquitius’ face creased in panic. ‘But Salvian. . Draga swore that if I told you, he would kill me. He sees everything, hears everything. . ’ The senator shot glances in every direction, eyes bulging.

Pavo’s breaths came short and shallow at this, the words twisting like a dagger in his heart. ‘The Viper played you, just like he played me. . just like he led the whole empire and all of the Gothic tribes into this, like gladiators being led to a death bout.’ He grappled the spatha with both hands and fixed the senator with a dark glare. ‘Now, do you want to die?’

Tarquitius looked all around him, then to the ground. His shoulders slumped. ‘I have torn off more meat than I can chew in these last months.’ Then he looked up to Pavo. ‘Does it interest you to know that I despise myself, boy? Does it?’ His voice was cracking.

In that instant, Pavo felt a twinge of pity for this man, then steeled himself. ‘Through all those years I spent in your slave cellar, I saw a man soured with political ambition, devoid of charity or empathy. A man who revelled in the torment of his slaves. Do not talk to me of remorse, Senator. Tell me of my father!’

Tarquitius’ gaze grew distant, and he nodded.

Pavo’s heart pounded.

‘That day, at the slave market, when I bought you. You remember the crone who accosted me?’

Pavo nodded, eyes narrowed. He had never forgotten the white-haired old lady, wraith-like in appearance, who had given him the phalera. He clasped one hand to the piece.

‘She foretold that if I harmed you in any way, terrible things would happen to me,’ he shook his head, trembling. ‘But I did not harm you,’ he asserted, his jaw jutting out in defiance. ‘Yes, you lived a hard life, but never once did I raise my hand to you.’

‘No, you left that to your bull of a slavemaster,’ Pavo spat, jabbing the spatha point into Tarquitius’ neck. ‘Now, what of my father?’

Tarquitius glanced to the phalera. ‘The answer is in your hands, Pavo.’ He glanced to the eastern horizon. ‘She said that the razing of Bezabde was not a mindless slaughter. Yes, the walls were toppled and blood was spilled until the streets were stained red. But she said that in the sands of the east. . ’ the senator’s words trailed off, a frown forming on his brow as he peered past Pavo’s shoulder, over the northern palisade. Then his jaw dropped.

‘Senator?’ Pavo frowned.

A hissing cut through the night air, followed by a sickening thud. At once, Pavo’s face was showered with hot blood. He staggered back, blinking, as Tarquitius’ eyes bulged, an arrow jutting from his mouth, the shaft still quivering. For a heartbeat, Tarquitius gazed at Pavo in terror. Then the senator’s eyes rolled in his head and he slumped to the ground, limbs twitching.

‘No!’ Pavo gasped, dropping his sword, slumping to his knees, rolling the senator onto his back. But the life was gone from him.

Pavo leapt to standing and swept his gaze along the northern palisade. All seemed empty.

But then, in the darkness, the shadows rippled. Pavo saw a figure, crouching like a bird of prey on the edge of the palisade. Then the figure dropped from its perch.

Pavo rushed to the wall and leapt up. Outside, the figure had leapt onto the saddle of a Gothic mount, bow in hand. Pavo glared at the dark green cloak and hood and the shadows where the face should have been. His whole body shook as a sliver of moonlight revealed Draga’s chilling half-smile, before the Viper turned to gallop back into the night.

Cries of alarm broke out as the sentries noticed the fleeing rider.

A swarm of thoughts buzzed through Pavo’s mind, growing louder until he thought his skull would burst. Then one thought barged to the fore.

Kill him!

Pavo’s blood boiled as he leapt onto the gelding and yelled. ‘Ya!’

The sentries on the gate relented at last and opened the gates when Pavo revealed that a senator had been slain and that the killer was outside the walls. Optio Avitus’ face had greyed as he heard Pavo announce this. But Pavo had no time for explanations. He had galloped from the fort and out into the gloom of the night, lowered in his saddle, teeth gritted. He had followed the Viper for miles as the green-cloak fled over the rise, across the wide plain, past the willows and to the first of the foothills.

He reached the foot of the nearest hill before he realised he was wearing only a tunic and carried no weapons. Then I’ll tear out his throat with my hands, he swore, seeing the cloak disappear over the peak of the hill. He heeled his gelding, praying it could keep the pace.

He crested the hill and then stopped. The foothills ahead were bare and devoid of movement, Draga nowhere to be seen. He slid from the saddle and slumped to his knees, thumping a fist into the earth, biting back the urge to weep as the phalera dangled from his neck like a lead weight.

‘You should know by now that I will always be one step ahead of you, Roman,’ a voice spoke. ‘I lurk in every shadow; I hear your every thought.’

Pavo’s blood froze as he looked up. Draga had emerged from the darkness into the moonlight.

Rage washed through his veins and he launched himself forward with a roar. But, with a series of thuds, the ground before him was peppered with arrows and he froze. From the darkness, a band of chosen archers emerged, their next arrows nocked to their bows, trained this time on his chest. Ivo stood with them, the moonlight glinting in the milky matter of his ruined eye.

Draga cocked his head to one side, his expression sincere. ‘You appear to be upset by Tarquitius’ slaying? The senator had to die. It was just a matter of when.’

‘He was about to tell me everything!’ Pavo seethed, then his face fell as he saw Draga’s self-congratulatory grin. ‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew he would be executed if he came back to the Roman camp. You knew I would try to save him. You wanted him to die when the truth was on his lips!’

Draga nodded. ‘You’re a sharp thinker, but you had to be taught a lesson. Just as your empire slew my father, I will slay every Roman in my path. And, just as you took your woman from my camp, I took the truth from your grasp. Learn your lesson well, legionary.’

With that, Draga’s eyes sparkled and he lifted a hand, one finger extended. ‘Now, it is time to seize my destiny.’ With that, he dropped the finger.

At this, the twenty archers reloaded their bows with pitch-soaked arrows, and one appeared carrying a torch, igniting the missiles. They aimed skywards and loosed, and Pavo watched the missiles streak up across the navy sky. The earth under his feet rumbled, and dancing firelight lit up the nearest hillsides to the north.

Pavo knew what was coming over those hills; the Gothic horde was on the march and they would reach the Roman camp at dawn. Despite this, he buried his fear. He spoke steadily, fixing his gaze on Draga. ‘In these past weeks I have wondered; is your heart entirely black? You taught me many things; good-hearted advice that served me well. But the biggest lesson is one I fear you have not learned yourself.’ Pavo stabbed a finger to the ground. ‘Many of your people will die tomorrow so you can have your revenge,’ Pavo spoke steadily, ‘yet you can’t see that their blood will be on your hands, can you?’

The hills flickered to life as the first waves of the Gothic army crested them; a wall of torchlight and glinting helms, speartips, arrowtips and armour. Then the hills either side were awash with cavalry. Far more numerous than the Roman force. Draga’s face curled into a cool grin as the archers nocked their next arrows and took aim at Pavo. ‘The blood-letting was begun by your empire long, long ago, legionary. Ever since they slew my father and sunk a blade into my shoulder. Now, your kind will reap what they sowed that day, and the Viper’s destiny will be realised. The tribes are united. The conquest of the empire is about to begin!’

Pavo braced himself, glancing around the archers, waiting on the order to be given. Twenty arrowheads would tear into his unarmoured body. Then, perhaps, he might meet Father in the afterlife.

But Draga extended a finger to Pavo’s chestnut gelding, like a master dismissing a dog. ‘Ride, legionary, go back to your legions. I give you this as our parting gift; one last dawn to make peace with your gods.’

Pavo stumbled backwards, then hauled himself onto the saddle. He heeled the mount round, but his gaze was fixed on Draga, who clenched a fist and sneered;

‘By dusk tomorrow, your army will be carrion and we will tread through your corpses, Traianus’ head mounted on our banner as we march to the south. To Constantinople!’

At this, Ivo lifted his longsword and beat it against his shield, then cried out. As one, the Gothic army roared out in unison.

Pavo’s heart hammered. He heeled his mount into a turn and then a breakneck gallop back to the Roman camp, Draga’s cold laughter ringing in the air behind him.

Avitus swigged his soured and watered wine, eyeing the northern horizon carefully. Then he gazed through the mouth of the skin again.

‘Found anything in there yet, sir?’ The young legionary, Noster, chirped.

Avitus shot him a foul glare. ‘What is it with you? Keep your eyes to the north, and your tongue still.’

At this, Noster dropped his smile and fell into a nervous silence.

Avitus screwed up his eyes and sighed; the time for bitterness was past. He had hoped that perhaps the lad Pavo might not slay the senator tonight. But then the lad had been seen fleeing the camp, leaving a commotion in his wake as the senator’s body was discovered. It seemed any man was capable of dark deeds. ‘Here, have a drink,’ he handed the skin to the youngster. ‘I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’

‘Thanks,’ Noster nodded, then cautiously took a swig. ‘Are you worried about the Goths — that they will come for us tonight?’

Avitus shook his head with a wry grin, his mind once again flitting with images of his past, each one eroding his soul. ‘In these last days, I’ve been more worried that they would not come for us, lad.’ Avitus glanced to the youngster.

Noster’s face wrinkled in confusion.

‘Ach, ignore me and my maudlin talk.’ Avitus accepted the wineskin again. He made to take a swig when something caught his eye, on the ridge to the north. A rider was approaching at speed.

Avitus leaned forward. It was Pavo. Good lad, he thought, you’re doing the right thing. Don’t run from your problems.

But then Avitus noticed an orange glow on the northern horizon, behind Pavo. ‘Dawn comes from the east, does it not?’ he said to Noster, whose gaze was also fixed on the glow.

‘Last time I checked, aye.’ Noster replied, gulping.

Then Avitus heard Pavo’s distant cries, saw his eyes wide with urgency, his brow furrowed, his arms waving. He threw down the wineskin and craned his neck from the watchtower. Now he could hear it, from the north; a distant din of rippling iron and thundering hooves.

Then, as Pavo raced to the north gate, his cries became clear. ‘The Goths are coming!’

Noster fumbled for the buccina and Avitus’ jaw fell open. ‘Pavo! What in Hades did you do out there?’

Buccinas sang urgent notes and at once, the camp was awash with activity as dawn breached the land. Legionaries spilled from their tents, dousing fires, snatching up helmets, armour and weapons. Archers scuttled to the practice range, taking up quivers. Stablehands dropped brushes and buckets and began frantically tying saddles to horses. Mounted officers steered their beasts through the organised chaos, barking orders, rousing their men with words of encouragement.

At the heart of the square of XI Claudia tents, Pavo fumbled to pull on his mail vest over his linen tunic, then wrapped his swordbelt around his waist and pulled on his intercisa helmet. No time for polishing, no time for checking. The Goths were on the march.

‘Pray to Mithras we can intercept them on the plain,’ Sura muttered as he hefted up his shield and spear, rolling his head on his shoulders to loosen the tension in his neck.

Pavo looked to his friend, still bleary-eyed from sleep. ‘Their numbers have swollen since they have been in the mountains,’ he said in a hushed voice, keen not to panic the sea of recruits who readied themselves nearby.

‘Good, I’ve got a bone to pick with these bastards,’ Sura said with a shrug, barely disguising a nervous twitch in his cheek. ‘The more, the better!’

At this, the nearest of the recruits broke out in a nervous chuckle.

Centurion Quadratus strode past, picking up on the mood, Optio Avitus by his side, as always. ‘That’s it, you mutts!’ Quadratus roared. ‘Let’s get every blade ready, every dart in place. I’ve only had you in my ranks for what, weeks? And you’re easily the best bunch of runts I’ve ever led!’

At this, the recruits fell silent, until the belly of one gurgled like a clearing drain.

Quadratus pulled a look of mock indignation. ‘Mithras’ sake, soldier! You’ll get your chance to eat your fill of hardtack when we’re on the march!’ Then he clenched a fist, his bottom lip curling. ‘Then, when we’ve shown the whoresons out there the way to Hades, we’ll be feasting on pheasant and garum dates!’

The recruits erupted in a cheer at this.

Pavo grinned at his centurion as the big Gaul came closer. ‘Glad to be marching with you today, sir.’

Quadratus smoothed his moustache. ‘Aye, I’d be glad to have you with me too. But you’re with Centurion Zosimus today.’

‘Sir?’ Pavo frowned.

‘He asked for you and,’ Quadratus turned to nod at Sura with a hint of a wicked grin, ‘that mental bastard.’

‘Why?’ Sura asked when his scowl had faded.

‘Same as always, we need to seed the centuries with veterans.’

Sura and Pavo looked back blankly.

Quadratus glared at them. ‘That means you two!’

Pavo looked to Sura and Sura gawped back.

Then Pavo hefted his ruby and gold shield and spear in one hand and saluted with the other. ‘May Mithras be with you, sir, out there.’

Then he turned his salute to Avitus as well. For an instant, the pair’s eyes met. He remembered Felicia’s last words. Find the truth, Pavo, I beg of you.

He moved in close to the veteran, readying to ask the question.

But Avitus spoke first. ‘I knew you didn’t have it in you to kill the senator, Pavo. You’re a good lad.’ His words were solemn, almost sorrowful.

‘And that’s why I must ask you this, sir.’ Pavo steeled himself, leaning in to the optio’s ear. ‘I have heard grim rumour that you are. . were a speculatore. Is it true?’

Avitus’ face fell and his gaze grew distant. Finally, he replied. ‘I’ve waited a long time to speak with someone, Pavo. But first, let today bring what it must. Then we can talk.’

Pavo clasped his forearm to Avitus’, the pair exchanging a firm nod.

With that, they parted, then Pavo followed Sura in a jog through the assembling centuries. All around them, the readied centuries streamed from the north gate of the camp. Outside, they formed up before the rise that led to the plain and Ad Salices, The Town by the Willows. Traianus cantered around them as they spilled from the camp, urging the men to keep a hundred feet between cohorts and to present a wide front.

Then Pavo and Sura heard Zosimus’ gruff commands echo over the clattering of iron and drumming of boots. Just ahead, the big Thracian was barking his century into line, readying to join the exodus.

‘Sir!’ Pavo barked. ‘Reporting for duty.’

Zosimus turned to him, his anvil jaw swelling as he grinned like a torturer receiving new subjects. ‘Ah, about bloody time!’

‘Which rank, sir?’ Sura asked, glancing to the century as it gradually formed into an iron square, walled with ruby and gold shields and roofed with fin-topped intercisa helmets and speartips. But all of the men in the square bore the raw, fearful expressions of recruits.

‘First rank, you’re heading up the first file.’

Sura raised his eyebrows. ‘But that’s where the tesserarius stands?’

‘Aye, it is — second only to the optio,’ Zosimus replied with a sardonic smile. ‘You’re a clever bugger, aren’t you?’

Sura cast a disbelieving glance to Pavo as he took his place at the front-right of the square. Then he wasted no time in barking his file into a tighter line.

Pavo looked to Zosimus. ‘And me?’

Zosimus’ face was sincere, and he held Pavo’s gaze. ‘Right where you are, Optio. I’ve never replaced Paulus since those whoresons slit his throat in Dardor.’

Pavo’s heart swelled and his skin rippled with pride, disbelief and. . that old trickle of icy fear. Could he lead these men as Zosimus’ second in command? These men were raw, young, and so much depended on this battle.

‘You’re sure I’m ready, sir?’ He spoke in a whisper, frowning.

Zosimus’ top lip curled in distaste, and he leaned in to Pavo’s ear. ‘Knock that rubbish out of your skull, lad. Do you think I was ready? I nearly soiled my tunic when I was made centurion. Gallus promoted me with one line of advice: lead as you wish to be led. And Gallus has backed your promotion.’

Pavo glanced past the centurion, to the centre of the XI Claudia area, where Gallus stood. The tribunus’ expression was ice cold as he surveyed the readying legion. Then he turned his gaze on Pavo, and gave him the faintest of nods. Pavo’s thoughts swirled. Then he looked into the Zosimus’ eyes. ‘But, sir, when Lupicinus put me at the head of a vexillatio, I struggled. . ’

Zosimus cut him off, gripping him by the shoulders. ‘Do you know what clinched it — for me and for Gallus?’

Pavo frowned, shaking his head.

‘Crito; when we were in the dell, not long after you had taken down the bridge over the Beli Lom. He went to Gallus and recommended you. Said you were one of the finest men he had ever marched with.’ Zosimus held his stunned gaze for a few heartbeats, then stepped away and roared to the century. ‘Ready to move out!’

Pavo’s skin rippled as he stared into the space Zosimus had stood. Crito; the veteran who had regarded him like an unwashed latrine for so long; the embodiment of his own self-doubt. Something had changed in the man in those last few weeks before he was slain. Perhaps it was the loss of his family at Marcianople; perhaps it was the realisation that they were all in it together at that desperate skirmish at the bridge. Whatever the reason was, this revelation felt like honey in Pavo’s veins. Like sand trickling from a timer, his self-doubt drained away, leaving only pride. The phalera juddered on his chest as his heart hammered.

He turned to the century and filled his lungs, drew his spatha then rapped it on his shield boss.

‘You heard the centurion. Pull together, stand tall, and. . move out!’