Viper of the North

Chapter 24

The early morning heat prickled on Pavo’s skin and the scent of spring honeysuckle and wild rapeseed danced on the warm air. He looked east, across the verdant plain, his gaze hanging on the willow thicket shimmering in the heat haze over there. The town of Ad Salices lay nestled in the lacy shade offered by the trees. For a heartbeat, he could hear only the chirruping cicada song and it felt like an ordinary day, his armour momentarily weightless. Until he saw the trail of discarded belongings scattered outside the deserted village. Until he heard the barking officers and the rippling of iron beside him and all along the Roman lines that hemmed the southern edge of the plain. Until he turned his head forwards again, and beheld the massive Gothic horde that stained the northern end of the plain, their jagged cries and chanting now drowning the cicada song. Until the screech of a vulture split the air, and the sky began to darken with seemingly prescient carrion birds.

Swatting at a persistent mayfly, he eyed the army they were to face. Fritigern’s ranks had swollen to over twenty thousand warriors. To a man, they were hungry for imperial blood, readied under a collection of Chi-Rho standards and the old pagan banners of the sapphire hawk and the emerald boar. And all of them march unwittingly under the banner of the Viper, he grimaced.

Over twelve thousand spearmen formed the tightly-packed Gothic centre. These warriors were tall and broad, blonde locks braided and knotted, weapons readied, eyeing the central party of their leaders eagerly; Fritigern and Ivo, with Draga lurking behind. Absurdly, while most of the Goths wore their red leather armour and conical helmets, many now wore Roman mail and scale vests and intercisa helmets, having plundered the legionary fabricae workhouses across Moesia.

Behind their deep and wide ranks of spearmen, a mass of some three thousand chosen archers lined the rise of the first of the foothills. Their quivers were packed, their fingers flexing in impatience to take advantage of this excellent elevation over the plain. Behind the archers, a thick ring of Gothic wagons plugged the entrance into the foothills and the path into the towering Haemus Mountains. The wagons formed a rudimentary barricade, sheltering the Gothic women, children and elderly, and doubtless a large supply of fresh weapons and armour. Bookending the Gothic ranks were two wings of cavalry, each numbering some two thousand. The front ranks of each wing wore full-face helmets like iron wolves, eyeing their prey across the plain.

‘More’s the better!’ Centurion Zosimus grumbled by his side.

Pavo pulled a wry grin at this, then glanced over his shoulder at his century and then across the Roman lines that stretched out to his right.

The rear of the Roman army was finally settling into formation. Now, five legions — nearly eight thousand men — were readied; the limitanei wore iron-finned intercisa helms and mail shirts over white tunics, and they grappled spears and the ever-trusty spathas. Each of them gripped painted oval shields with three plumbatae clipped onto the inside. The comitatenses were even more finely armoured, wearing glistening scale vests, and additionally equipped with lancea javelins. Each man’s skin was bathed in sweat, fingers flexing on weapons. Some glared at their enemy, chests heaving in fear and battle-lust. Others stood, silent, eyes closed in prayer, trying to block out the incessant Gothic chanting and rapping of weapons on shields.

The legions’ flanks were protected by the Roman cavalry; two compact wedges of cataphractii and two cobbled-together alae of equites and equites sagitarii. Barely two thousand all-told. At the head of the Roman line was a thin screen of skirmishers: a cohort of sagittarii foot archers who wore ruby cloaks, mail shirts over their tunics and helmets with slim iron nose-guards; a few hundred funditores who were already strapping up their wrists and stretching their limbs and their slings; and a cohort of auxilliaries, clutching light javelins, swords and daggers, but unarmoured bar the few who clutched battered shields or helmets. Some eleven thousand men all told were to stand in opposition to the wall of Goths across the plain.

Two comitatenses legions — the IV Italica and the II Armeniaca — formed the Roman centre, while the II Isauria formed the prestigious right wing. Meanwhile, the limitanei of the I Adiutrix formed the inner left. And so it was left to the XI Claudia — each of the three cohorts less than half-strength, patched together with recruits and the tattered remains of the other limitanei legions that had strayed into the Roman camp — to form the far left of the Roman line. This was a position long-held as unlucky and doomed to break if the line was to come under too much pressure. Their job was to refuse the flank and prevent this eventuality at all costs.

And what a soldier to see that job through, Pavo affirmed, glancing a handful of paces to his right. There, Tribunus Gallus stood tall at the head of the XI Claudia. The legion aquilifer stood next to him in nervous silence, clutching the silver eagle standard, the ruby bull banner hanging motionless in the muggy, still air.

Pavo shuffled, rolling his head to double-check his intercisa helmet was firmly secured. Then he readjusted his mail vest, reaffirmed his grip on his shield and spear, then corrected his posture. His linen tunic was slick with sweat and still he couldn’t brush away the nagging of his full bladder. He cursed under his breath.

‘Every bloody time, eh?’ Sura grumbled, just behind him, biting his lower lip and jostling on the balls of his feet.

‘Reminds me I’m alive,’ Pavo replied over his shoulder, gruffly. ‘Long may it continue.’

‘Not too long though,’ Sura replied, squinting up at the sun, ‘or we might cook out here.’

‘The Goths need to move first if we are to have any chance,’ Pavo replied, nodding to the far end of the Roman line. ‘He’s biding his time.’

There, heading up the Roman right, Traianus was dressed in full battle armour, crested with a purple plume, mounted on an equally well-armoured stallion. He was engaged in frantic discussion with Tribunus Profuturus and the other comitatenses tribuni. Traianus seemed to be insisting that they wait, despite the growing heat and despite some of the tribuni calling for the legions to make the first strike.

Pavo heard the nervous grumblings all along the ranks behind him. Standing in full armour in the searing sun was doing little to aid morale, especially when the Goths were in full song, their ululations and guttural chanting echoing across the plain. But he also saw the Gothic advantage in numbers, and that their archers held the high ground. There would be no victory by an early attack or by brute force today. Strategy would be the key. They would have to wait. Pavo noticed the magister militum gazed to the western horizon as his tribuni appealed to him for action. His brow furrowed. Mithras tell me he has a plan!

Then, young Noster spoke out from behind him, his voice hoarse. ‘Sir, permission to down helmets and weapons and take on water?’

Centurion Zosimus twisted round at this, his incredulous expression glistening with sweat. ‘You just keep your hand on your sword hilt and your shield on your arm!’ The big Thracian shouted over the Gothic song.

But then, suddenly, the Gothic chorus stopped dead. All Roman eyes snapped forward. There, beside Fritigern, Ivo held his arms aloft, like a bird readying to soar. All Gothic heads were turned to him. Then, after revelling in the silence for a few heartbeats, the giant warrior took to rallying the Gothic army with a booming anti-Roman tirade. His every exclamation was met with a sharp, raucous cheer that shook the land, amplified by the foothills cupping their ranks and the Haemus mountains behind them. Then the grizzled warrior drew his sword and levelled it across the plain, tip pointing directly at the Roman centre. As one, the Gothic army took to battering their spears and swords on their shields, and threw forth a baritone roar that seemed neverending.

Pavo clutched the phalera through his mail vest and tried to block out the doubt that raced through his heart. But it was no use, morale was already disintegrating. The silence across the Roman lines was painful. He looked across the plain; at the centre of the Gothic line, Fritigern and Ivo were mounted at the fore. ‘Fools!’ He cried over the cacophony of the Gothic chorus, seeing the mounted Draga lurking behind the pair. ‘They don’t even know they’ve been led here, like cattle, to fight the Viper’s war.’

At this, Zosimus scowled at him. More, Gallus also turned, glaring at him. Then a sparkle appeared in the tribunus’ eyes.

With that, Gallus turned to the legion. ‘Aye, as have we,’ he boomed in response. ‘You’ve all heard the rumours about the Viper, the one man who will bring all Gutthiuda crashing down upon the empire? A master of strategy, a shade, a demon. . I’ve heard it all.’

The men of the front ranks frowned at this.

‘Well that very whoreson stands just over a plumbata’s throw across the grass.’ Gallus’ chest grew as he sucked in a breath and clutched the eagle standard from the aquilifer. ‘He’ll bleed like any man, and if we fight like the lions we are, then he’ll bleed his last today! So are we here today to lie down before his mighty army? Are we?’ Gallus shook his head briskly, a manic sparkle in his eyes. ‘I am not!’

Pavo sensed the mood change at that moment.

Gallus ripped the spatha from his scabbard and held it aloft, the standard held high in the other hand. ‘I have fought these whoresons on the plains, in the forests, in the mire and on the waves for longer than I care to remember. For what? Just to have them devour my corpse on this day, on this land, our land? I don’t think so!’ His words seemed to be piercing the Gothic chant, and the adjacent I Adiutrix and nearby IV Italica had all picked up on the rousing homily. Pavo could see heads being turned in the ranks of the II Armeniaca and II Isauria as well, with expressions of bemusement touched with hope.

Then, Gallus stabbed his spatha into the ground, and pumped the standard towards the sky.

‘Remember we are the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis, men. The name was bestowed upon us for our loyalty and determination to stand firm when all seemed lost. Fight for your brothers by your side, men; fight for your people; fight for your empire!’

At once, the XI Claudia erupted in a roar that swept across the Roman ranks like wildfire, and then out, across the plain like the first wave of intent. The Gothic chant notably hushed at this, albeit briefly. Pavo saw Traianus look up in astonishment, then cock an eyebrow in thanks to Gallus. Then his heart bristled with pride as Gallus in turn looked to him, eyes narrowed, and gave him that ice-cold look and a hint of a nod.

But within moments, the Gothic chant grew again to match the Roman resurgence. At this, Traianus lifted his huge, silver eagle banner, and the front-line comitatenses with him roused the Roman lines into an even louder chorus. Then all the roaring was drowned out by the low wailing of Gothic war horns.

Fritigern and Ivo waved the Gothic centre forward.

In response, the Roman buccinators raised their instruments to their lips, and replied with a near-deafening chorus of higher pitched notes, the age-old song of the empire going to war.

The standards across the Roman line were raised. Zosimus braced, ready to move, then hissed to Pavo. ‘This is it! Let’s keep the lads in formation at all costs.’

Pavo nodded, gritting his teeth. Then he turned to Sura. ‘Ready?’ He roared.

‘Ready!’ Sura grimaced.

As one, the Roman legions marched forward. The sagittarii, funditores and auxiliaries ran out ahead in loose formation. They loosed stones, arrows and javelins first to test range, then to make the first kills of the day as the foremost Goths were punched back from their charge by the hail. Hundreds of the blonde warriors toppled, stones embedded in skulls, arrows tearing out throats and javelins bursting through chests. But within a few heartbeats, the Gothic chosen archers packing the banking of the foothills had found their range with which to retaliate. Arrows darkened the sky and the Roman skirmishers up ahead fell in swathes, screaming, crimson blood jetting from their arrow wounds. Only the armoured sagittarii stood firm, the bulk of the arrows dancing from their mail shirts and glancing from their helmets.

The plain before Pavo jostled as he kept pace with Zosimus, seeing one of the last of the slingers, only a few strides ahead, spin on the spot, an arrow through his eye. Then an auxilliary crumpled beside the slain slinger, three flights quivering in his chest.

‘They’re getting mauled!’ Sura cried, beside him.

‘They need to be pulled back or it’ll be a slaughter!’ Pavo yelled, darting a glance along to the standards and the buccinators.

Mercifully, a buccina cried out. The surviving skirmishers heard the series of notes and gratefully slipped back through the narrow gaps between the legionary cohorts to form up once more, out of range of the chosen archers.

It was now time for the legions to go to work.

‘We’re drawing into archer range!’ Gallus cried back over his shoulder. ‘Front ranks, ready testudo. Rear ranks — ready your bows, aim for the archers on the banking!’

As one, the XI Claudia entered the arrow storm, shields raised overhead and around the edges of each cohort. The three rearmost ranks crouched behind the cover afforded by the ranks before them and readied their bows.

Inside the testudo, the din of the missile hail drumming down on them was deafening. One arrowhead split the wooden layers of Pavo’s shield, coming to rest inches from his nose. All around him, legionaries clutched at arrows that had slipped inside the shield roof, piercing throats or tearing thighs. One young legionary screamed in frustration as he tried in vain to hold up his shield, but the arrow in his bicep forced him to drop it, then one arrow knocked his helmet from his head and a second hammered through his skull. But the testudo held and at last the hail slowed just a fraction.

Gallus pounced on this hiatus. ‘Front ranks, brace!’ He roared. ‘Rear ranks. . loose!’

Pavo and the front ranks bunched closer together, seeing that the Gothic spearmen were less than a hundred strides away. At the same time, the rear three ranks of each of the limitanei cohorts stood tall and rippled to present a canopy of taut bows, arrows straining at strings. Snatching glances to either side of his shield, Pavo saw the faces of the onrushing Goths drop.

Legionaries did not carry bows. Until now.

With a twang and then a hiss, the Roman arrow hail sailed overhead and hammered down into the chosen archers, stood high on the banking. This presented a window of opportunity for the funditores, sagitarrii and auxiliaries to push up once more. They rushed forward and loosed their missiles from behind the Roman lines, felling swathes of the nearer Gothic spearmen. Pavo issued a silent prayer of thanks to Emperor Valens for his insistence on training the border legions in archery.

As the Roman hail slowed, Gallus seized on the moment. ‘Now, ready plumbatae!’

Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix echoed the order along the cohorts of the XI Claudia, as did the tribuni and centurions of the other legions. As one, the five legionary blocks slowed to a halt within a handful of paces. Pavo unclipped one of his darts from behind his shield, then raised it in unison with those around him. He trained his sights on the snarling wall of Goths, racing for the Roman lines, now barely fifty paces away.

‘Loose!’

The dart hail streaked up from the Roman lines and then plummeted into the densely packed Gothic spearmen, smashing faces, shattering limbs, tearing through red leather cuirasses and splitting ribcages. Like a wave breaking on a craggy beach, the Gothic charge was ripped asunder; men were punched back into those following them, blood and strips of flesh thrown up like a spray.

‘And again, again!’ Gallus roared, glancing to the Gothic chosen archers who were taking aim in retaliation.

Pavo unclipped his second dart from behind his shield and launched it. It shattered the cranium of one helmetless Goth, showering the men behind him in a grey wash. But the enemy charge faltered less this time; the second dart hail had been staggered, less accurate and lacking the punch of the first.

Only a few paces separated the two masses of infantry now. There would be no time for a third volley. He grappled his spear and dipped his brow, waiting on the order.

From the corner of his eye he could see Centurion Zosimus’ face curl into a snarl.

The big Thracian filled his lungs; ‘Brace!’

‘Pull together!’ Pavo cried out. He heard Sura echo the order, seeing his friend pull some of the raw recruits closer. ‘Stay alongside your brothers and they will fight for you!’ He roared, his voice cracking. Snarling, foaming, wild-eyed Goths returned the roar with added venom as they bounded the last few strides separating the two armies. Then he pushed his shoulders into Zosimus on his right and Sura on his left, the three locking shields in a tacit bond of brotherhood. Memories of battles past echoed through his mind as the crimson veil tinged his vision.

‘For the empire!’ Gallus bawled.

‘For the empire!’ The XI Claudia echoed in unison.

The two armies collided, and the plain reverberated with the smash of iron and the guttural cries of men. Blood sprayed up across the collision. Limbs and heads spun through the air. The first rank of Goths leapt into and over the shield wall in bloodlust and due to the sheer momentum of their charge, some landing within the first few ranks of Romans. There they wreaked havoc, spinning, scything their spears and swords around the packed legionaries before being hacked down in a spray of blood. The second rank of Goths smashed against the Roman shieldwall; some hacked down those legionaries before them, others ran straight onto legionary spears, then their bodies were raised and ripped asunder, spilling a crimson fog over the front lines before the cadavers were hurled back into the Gothic swell. But the Gothic numbers were telling, and their charge had been deadly. Legionaries all along the front ranks of the XI Claudia had simply vanished under the impact, their bodies trampled into a paste of crimson speckled with white bone.

Yet the centre of the XI Claudia held good. Pavo butted his shield out at the next Goth who came at him, winding the man and then jabbing his spear down and into the man’s larynx. The Goth’s eyes had not even dimmed before he was trampled by his own kin and the next Gothic warrior barged into the fray. Pavo grimaced as another arrow smacked from his helmet and punched into the eye of the legionary behind him. He ignored the warm eye-matter that soaked his neck and targeted the Gothic warrior to his right who was swinging his longsword down on Zosimus. Pavo dipped his shield momentarily and speared the Goth through the jaw. The Goth’s arms fell limp, the longsword toppling to the ground. Pavo wrenched at his spear, and it finally came loose with a meaty clunk, complete with the Goth’s jaw and tongue. Pavo shook the spear to rid it of the gory mass, but it was stuck fast.

Then Sura’s voice pierced the air by his left side. ‘Pavo, watch your flank!’

Pavo spun to his right; Centurion Zosimus had stumbled and exposed Pavo’s right side. A Goth leapt at the fracture in the shieldwall, hacking down for Pavo’s neck. He raised his spatha, roaring in defiance, knowing he was too late, waiting on the death blow. Instead, he was showered with blood and offal, as a young legionary lunged forward to fill the gap and rip open the oncoming Goth’s belly with a spatha swipe. Pavo didn’t even have time to nod his gratitude, when a spear punched through the lad’s chest, throwing him back and pinning him to the earth.

Pavo roared and smashed his shield forward, hurling his spear at one Goth then ripping his spatha from his scabbard to stab another in the gut. He glanced around for his next foe, then realised he was standing forward of the line. He stepped back, once, twice, three times, but still the left flank was retracting. This felt wrong, Pavo realised; the XI Claudia and the I Adiutrix were being pressed back too fast — beyond the point of refusing a flank. Then a buccina wailed three times, and he heard a Roman voice call out over the tumult.

‘Hold your ground! Refuse the flanks!’

Pavo’s eyes widened; if they were pushed round past a right-angle with the Roman centre, then they were doomed. In between parries and shield butts, he snatched glances up and over the Gothic swell to understand what was happening. Then he saw it: the two Gothic cavalry wings had cantered around the flanks of the battle, readying for a charge on the Roman rear. Readying to dash the legionary line against the anvil of Gothic spearmen.

Mithras, save us! He cursed inwardly and ducked back down under the swipe of a Gothic axe. He glanced to Zosimus. ‘Sir? We’re collapsing in on ourselves.’

All around them, the men of the Claudia and the I Adiutrix stumbled back, lamenting the sight of the Gothic horsemen. In return, the riders grinned like demons as they moved at ease, eyeing their prey.

‘Where is our bloody cavalry?’ The big Thracian growled, snatching glances over his shoulder in between beheading one Goth then braining another. The cataphractii were stationary, some two hundred paces back. And now the Gothic cavalry had rounded on the rear left and rear right of the legions unopposed. They were readying to charge.

‘All is not lost.’ Gallus gasped over the din of battle, hacking at the speartip of one Goth and then ducking from the sword swipe of another, ‘I persuaded the magister militum to prepare for this eventuality.’

‘Sir?’ Pavo panted.

Then a buccina cry split the air. Four clean notes. Pavo looked to Gallus; the tribunus seemed to be whispering some prayer of thanks. From across the plain, a cry of joy broke out from the Roman right flank. At once, the push of Gothic spearmen abated in uncertainty. Pavo looked to Sura, who mirrored his frown. The pair looked across the sea of bloodied and hugely depleted intercisa helmets, broken spears and fluttering eagle standards to see that the flimsy timber fence surrounding Ad Salices had been pushed to the ground. Behind the fence, twelve ballistae and another twelve onagers were aligned, loaded with bolts and boulders and manned by eager crews. More, the ballista at one end of the lineup was the hulking four-pronged device. The Gothic cavalry wing closing on the Roman right suddenly halted. They turned in their saddles, eyes bulging as they saw the weapons trained on them, realising their flank was exposed to the artillery.

An absurd silence hung over the field for but a heartbeat. Then, Traianus’ cry from the distant right flank ended it.

‘Loose! Tear them apart!’

With the groaning of timber and thick ropes snapping free of tension, a storm of bolts and rocks hurtled through the air and smashed into the Gothic cavalry by the Roman right. The impact was lethal; horses and riders were crushed like ants under the rocks, their bodies tossed across the plain, and those who avoided the rocks were punched from their mounts by the rapier-like bolts, some skewering three or more riders and knocking many more to the ground.

From the Gothic centre, war horns wailed to rally the riders. But, as some of the shattered wing scrambled back onto their mounts, those still mounted heeled their beasts in panic, trampling over their kin, stumbling over the slain.

‘Again!’ Traianus roared. The crews scurried around the devices, loading them and then twisting the winches to stretch and ready them once more.

Pavo felt a mix of joy and terror wash through his limbs; the right was secure, but the left was moments from being shattered. The Gothic charge on that side had only faltered temporarily on seeing their other wing smashed by the Roman artillery barrage. Now they had resumed their charge and were only a hundred strides away at most. The ground shook with their approach and a chorus of terrified moans broke out across the Roman ranks.

Then the buccinas sang out a series of notes that saw the cavalry alae on the secure right flank burst into life. They hared to the left to join the alae there, doubling their strength. As one, the Roman cavalry then swept across the rear of the legionary lines and then smashed the charging Gothic cavalry wing in the midriff.

The cataphractii led the way, punching into the Gothic formation as a wedge and then driving deep into their midst. Their lances wreaked havoc as they sliced through to burst clear on the opposite side, then turned back to carve another path of destruction. All the while, the equites sagitarii wheeled in circles to the rear of the Gothic wing, showering the riders with arrows and covering the charge of the cataphractii.

The Gothic charge had been broken at the last.

Pinned down and enraged, the Gothic riders lost all formation and were forced to skirmish against the swooping cataphractii, but without any momentum of a charge, their mastery of mounted combat was blunted. The Gothic cavalry were feared by Roman citizens as expert cavalrymen, but these ironclad demons from the east were shredding them. And then the last of the Roman cavalry, the equites, one thousand strong, galloped round to the rear of the Gothic infantry lines. There, they swept across the banking, scattering the chosen archers.

‘God is with us!’ One voice from the eastern comitatenses cried above the chaos.

‘Mithras is with us!’ Zosimus barked back with gusto.

At this, the Roman line roared in a joyous release, spared from slaughter by a tactical masterstroke. Pavo felt the press of the Gothic spearmen lift completely as they backed off, wary of the equites at their backs and conscious of the sudden cessation of archer support. He panted, limbs trembling. He wondered why the thundering in his heart was not abating. Then he saw that Draga was in discussion with Ivo, the pair mounted high above the jostling Gothic spearline. Ivo nodded, then turned and relayed Draga’s suggestions to Fritigern as if they were his own. Fritigern nodded hurriedly then called for the war horns. The horns moaned across the plain, and the Gothic cavalry were rallied by this, breaking free of the cataphractii death trap on the Roman left and the artillery bombardment on the Roman right. Then, from behind the wagons by the foothills, a fresh wave of some two thousand Gothic cavalry poured from the valleys. They raced around to the Roman right to flank the artillery, and in moments they were upon the crews of the ballistae and onagers, hacking them down without mercy. With that, the artillery fell silent.

Pavo looked to Gallus, who looked back with the same wide-eyed look of realisation. The Gothic cavalry had pulled free of the Roman snares and now they were reforming on either flank of their spearmen. The artillery and Roman cavalry charge had merely wounded the Goths. Now they were enraged.

Only one option remained.

At the Roman centre, Traianus held his sword aloft, the tip pointing to the Gothic lines. ‘Forward!’ Traianus roared.

The buccinas sang out and the battered Roman army charged into the fray.

The late-afternoon sun baked the carpet of dead and tortured the living who fought on in the clouds of flies and flocks of carrion birds.

Pavo’s body was numb as he stumbled from foe to foe. He did not hear the screaming now, seeing only the red wetness at the back of each opponent’s throat. That and the pure whites of their eyes, stark against the ubiquitous crimson masks worn by all on the field. The formations had disintegrated and the battlefield was speckled randomly with pockets of Romans and Goths, fighting to the last.

Pavo slashed out at one Goth who ran at him, cutting the man from neck to belly. Then, gasping for breath, he stumbled over the tangle of bodies, sliding on a slick of blood to fall by the staring eyes of a dead cataphractus; the blood had dried on the gaping wound on the man’s throat and his mount was cleaved to its core. The eastern riders and the artillery had been the difference that morning, but that seemed so long ago. Both forces had been shattered since then, and now only a few riders remained, fighting on foot alongside the artillery crewmen. And the skirmishers had all been felled bar the tight pocket of sagittarii who fought on with their swords and daggers near the wrecked remnants of the Roman artillery.

He staggered to his feet again, hearing only a faint hiss, the tumult of battle sounding dull and far away. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Quadratus, locked in combat with a pair of Goths. Beside the big centurion was Avitus. The little optio was mouthing something to him, growing more and more agitated. Pavo squinted at Avitus, his thoughts dreamlike. Then, a searing pain ripped across his neck and, at once, feeling and hearing returned to him like a wave crashing onto a shore.

‘Pavo! Pavo!’ Avitus cried.

Pavo spun, roaring, clutching at the deep gash on the side of his neck. He only had a heartbeat to check it was not an arterial cut before the two Goths who had rushed him lunged forward again, jabbing and slashing their longswords. Pavo staggered back; out of formation like this, a Roman spatha was at a disadvantage against these lengthy Gothic swords. He butted and parried, but the Goths were relentless. His arms were trembling with fatigue and he held his sword lower and lower. Then Avitus rushed to his aid, sliding his spatha into one Goth’s gut. But, before the optio could rip his blade free, the other Goth smashed his longsword across Avitus’ forearm, and the little Roman fell back with a cry. Pavo roared out in fury at this, as did Quadratus, still locked in battle only paces away.

Avitus slumped to his knees, clutching the wound. The Goth who had struck Avitus lined up for the death blow, but Pavo tore a dagger from the eye socket of a dead legionary and hurled it. The blade punched into the forehead of the Goth, who dropped like a sack of rubble. Then he ran to Avitus.

‘It’s over for me,’ Avitus panted, shrugging him away.

‘No it’s bloody not!’ Quadratus roared over his shoulder from only paces away, still locked in a swordfight with two Goths.

‘You heard your centurion,’ Pavo cried, pushing his own sword hilt into Avitus’ good hand, ‘now get u. . ’ his words trailed off as he saw the black blood pumping from the optio’s arm. The bone was smashed and his sword hand hung at an absurd angle

‘Leave me!’ Avitus barked, slumping back down.

Then the air echoed with the cry of a buccina. It was a series of shrill notes Pavo recognised, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

‘Listen!’ Avitus pushed him away. ‘Traianus is calling for a last stand. Get back to the main body of the legions and protect the eagles!’

Pavo’s eyes widened as he saw the optio’s face greying, breaths coming in rasps. Avitus was dying. Then he heard Felicia’s pained words in his mind, distant and pleading. Find the truth, Pavo, I beg of you.

Another wave of Goths rushed for the pair, followed by a trio of cavalry. He had moments.

He stared into Avitus’ eyes. ‘Sir, I have to ask you again. . ’

‘Pavo!’ Quadratus yelled, slaying one of his three opponents and glancing at the onrushing Goths. ‘Watch my flank!’

Pavo glanced up, then back to Avitus. ‘Were you a speculatore?’

Avitus’ face slackened at this, and he gazed into Pavo’s eyes, his pupils dilating. ‘I was, just as her brother was. They sent him to finish the mission that I could not.’

‘Pavo!’ Quadratus roared, eyes widening as the Goths rushed closer.

Pavo frowned. ‘What mission?’

‘To kill Gallus,’ Avitus choked on the words, shaking his head.

‘Gallus?’ Pavo gasped. ‘Why?’

‘We all have a past, Pavo. All of us,’ he rasped, then looked Pavo in the eye. ‘Tell her. . I’m sorry.’

Pavo’s eyes widened and his lips flapped uselessly, then he looked up to see that the Goths had their spears hoisted, ready to hurl them at Quadratus’ flank. He leapt up, throwing himself in front of Quadratus just as the Goths loosed their spears. But then, as the missiles hurtled for his unshielded midriff, Avitus jolted into a last spasm of life, up from his knees to lurch forward and into the path of the speartips.

Pavo froze. Quadratus spun round with a cry.

But the spears smashed into Avitus’ chest. In a spray of blood, the optio crashed to the ground, his body shattered, his blood adding to the mire underfoot.

Avitus of the XI Claudia was gone.

‘Whoresons!’ Quadratus cried, his face twisted in pain. The big Gaul swiped the head from one of his foes and kicked another back into the mire, then rushed at the rest.

Pavo grabbed his wrist. ‘Sir, it’s too late,’ he pointed all around, where the Gothic numbers seemed to be telling, the many clusters of them having formed into massed ranks again. But Quadratus wrenched his arm free. Then Pavo barked at him. ‘He died to save you, sir. Now come on, we need to form up with what’s left of the legions.’

Quadratus issued a pained growl and hurled his sword at the Goths, then turned and followed Pavo.

Pavo called back over his shoulder. ‘We’ll honour his memory with Gothic blood, sir, once we gather with the rest of the legions.’ Then he looked up to see the cluster of only a few hundred legionaries some fifty paces ahead, bristling in defiance with broken spearshafts and bent spathas in a ragged square. There were barely a cohort’s worth of them.

In their midst were the five silver eagles of the Roman army.

Amongst this cluster of bloodied men he saw Traianus, Gallus, Zosimus and Felix. Then he saw Sura on the front line, crying out, urging them on.

Pavo tumbled into the Roman cluster and shot glances all around; every direction presented Goths in dense packs; at least a third of their original number still lived. A full morning and afternoon of butchery and still the enemy had a massive numerical advantage. And now they encircled the Roman remnant, readying for the kill.

Then his eyes froze on Draga and Ivo who headed one wing of Gothic riders. He felt Draga’s burning glare on his skin as it swept over the tatters of the Roman army.

The Viper had sighted its prey.

‘Stand firm, stay together!’ Gallus rallied those around him as he grappled the handle of a round Gothic shield, salvaged from a dead warrior. The battered legionaries pushed up next to him, shoulder to shoulder. Then the Goths smashed home and the compact Roman square was shattered.

Gallus was thrown back as the Gothic cavalry broke the Roman front rank, tearing the square apart, driving for the eagles and Traianus at the centre. His helmet fell into the gore and the passing hooves threw a spray of mud and blood over his face.

Beside him, Tribunus Profuturus scrambled through the crimson mush in an attempt to reach Traianus. ‘Protect your leader!’ He bellowed. ‘Protect yo-’ his cry was cut short as a sword sliced off his head in one swipe.

Gallus scrabbled back from the head as it bounced to rest before him, mouth and eyes still gawping mid-cry. Then he looked up to see the rider who had felled Profuturus, and his heart steeled. The silver topknotted locks and beard, the glinting bronze hoops, the arrowhead nose and the angry scar welt over one eye.

‘Your part in history will be forgotten Roman,’ Ivo trotted around Gallus as the rest of the Goths piled into the disintegrating Roman square, washing round the pair like a river round rocks. ‘And your empire’s time is short.’

Gallus stared at the warrior, then stood, grappling his spatha hilt. ‘Your men may slay my army today, Ivo, but by Mithras, you will die with them.’

Ivo slipped from his saddle, and clasped the hilt of his longsword with both hands. ‘Do you know how many legionaries I have slain? Do you know how many great men of the north coveted my status as Fritigern’s champion, only to die on the edge of my blade?’ He flicked the longsword around in his hands as if it was a light stabbing blade.

Gallus raised his spatha. ‘It matters not. You have slain your last.’

Ivo roared in laughter at this, as all around him, legionaries were put to the sword, their screams cut short and their blood soaking the field. Then the big warrior’s face fell into a glare, and he rushed forward with a battle cry.

Gallus whispered a prayer to Mithras and a sweet word to Olivia, then roared and leapt to parry the Goth’s blade. A screaming of iron upon iron sent sparks across both of them. The force of the big man’s strike was ferocious, and Gallus was thrown back, his spatha cleaved, the hilt and a shard of blade left in his hand.

‘An ominous portent, is it not, Roman?’ Ivo grinned.

Gallus backed off as Ivo stalked forward, then jinked to avoid a swipe of the giant’s sword. The blade scythed through his mail vest, drawing a spray of blood from his chest, the vest falling loose, dangling from one shoulder. He felt something inside, something long buried. A cold realisation, creeping from his core, spidering across his skin. Was it fear?

Ivo roared in delight. ‘Now, weapons gone, fear begins to consume you, does it not? You have moments to live, Roman; see my face, remember my words, and take them with you to Hades!’

Ivo raised his sword over his head and brought it crashing for Gallus’ skull with a guttural roar. Gallus stared through the huge warrior, seeing the faces of all those who had fought by his side over the years, now merely memories. Then he saw Olivia, reaching out to him, smiling, tears staining her cheeks. At once, all fear was gone and his soul reverted to ice. He thrust the shard of his spatha up. His whole arm shuddered and the bones in his hand cracked as the sliver of blade punched into the edge of Ivo’s longsword, halting the strike. The pair hovered, eye to eye. To Hades with fear!

‘You mistake me for someone who fears death,’ Gallus spoke in an even tone, then pulled the spatha shard away, pirouetted round and plunged the makeshift blade into Ivo’s neck. He tore the blade along Ivo’s throat and the artery was rent.

Gallus was showered in the giant’s blood. He bored his icy, wolf-like glare into Ivo as the Gothic champion slid to the ground, confusion dancing across his good eye.

‘Hold the line!’ Traianus bawled, his voice cracking and rasping as he barged forward. As he reached the front of the huddle of surviving Romans, he hefted his sword overhead to strike at the Gothic mass. But a hand grappled his wrist. It was the tribunus of the IV Italica legion.

‘Stay back, sir. Stand tall with the eagles. The men need to know you live,’ he growled. ‘If you are slai-’ the tribunus’ words were cut short as a Gothic spear hammered into his chest, showering Traianus with blood.

Traianus twisted to see the clutch of Gothic riders who had thrown the spear; Draga was mounted at their head. His gore-spattered hood was plastered to his face, covering all but one manic, sparkling eye and his teeth, clenched in a frenzied half-grin. The look bored through Traianus’ armour to his soul, just like the look the boy Draga had given him on the wharf all those years ago.

Then the Viper raised his sword and cried out to his riders. As one, they charged for the Roman square.

Traianus’ mouth fell agape.

Pavo leapt up to hack his spatha into a Gothic spearman’s shoulder. The limb slid clear of the body and the man fell, howling, to be butchered by Sura, Zosimus and Felix.

‘That one was for Avitus,’ Pavo cried to Quadratus.

‘Every one of these whoresons is for Avitus!’ The big centurion bawled, then headbutted a Goth before plunging his sword through the felled warrior’s chest.

The Gothic press was relentless. Pavo felt his limbs quivering, growing heavier with every parry and strike. Every breath felt like fire, rasping in his parched throat. Never had battle drawn so much out of him. But when he glanced up, the sight before him fired his blood like never before; Draga and his riders were charging for the legionary huddle, ready to leap over the crumbling shieldwall and into its heart.

He followed the Viper’s manic glare and saw that it was fixed on Traianus — the magister militum was stumbling back to the centre of the Roman cluster.

‘Sir,’ he barked to Zosimus, ‘take my place!’

Zosimus squinted at him through a crimson mask and then flicked his gaze to the Viper’s charge. At this, the centurion’s eyes narrowed and he nodded, barging into Pavo’s spot, locking his shield with the legionaries either side. ‘Go! Take that bastard’s heart out!’ The big Thracian cried.

But Pavo was already on his way, pushing through the crush of legionaries, focused on the Viper. His brow dipped and he flexed his hand on his spatha hilt.

A clutch of the Viper’s riders raced ahead of their master and heeled their mounts into a jump into the Roman centre, hooves dashing out brains and longswords sweeping through necks like scythes. But Pavo ignored the screaming and readied himself, like a cat, as the Viper made to follow his riders.

Draga heeled his mount into a jump. Then, when man and beast were mid-leap, Pavo launched himself with a roar.

His shoulder smashed into Draga’s midriff, barging the Viper from his saddle and away from the legionary last stand. The pair tumbled through the gory filth, rolling under Gothic boots and hooves as they grappled and wrestled. Then, finally, the chaos subsided.

They were alone. The Gothic swell had pressed on past them, driving into the Roman huddle.

Draga was first to his feet, longsword raised. Then Pavo scrambled back to level his sword with the man. The one he had once known as the warm and wise ambassador Salvian was a demonic shade of red under his hood, the wet blood bubbling under his nostrils as he snorted in indignation.

‘You fool! You think you can stop me?’ Draga spoke through a twisted half-grin as the pair circled one another. ‘Look around you, your army will all be carrion long before dusk arrives. But rest easy as you go to your death, for you have played your part in bringing my vision into being.’

Pavo shook his head. ‘You still don’t see it, do you? You have dedicated your whole life to avenging your father’s death.’ He cast his free hand around the jumble of ruined corpses they walked upon. ‘Yet to have your revenge, you bring thousands upon thousands of your own kin to their deaths. The empire wanted peace, Draga, and you must have seen this, in your position as an ambassador. You knew the emperor sought nothing but an alliance.’

Draga’s twisted half-grin faded. ‘Do not presume to know what I have seen, legionary. Some of the darkest deeds I have ever witnessed have taken place in the fine climes of the senate building in Constantinople, in the cool and luxurious upper tiers of the Hippodrome,’ he leant forward and hissed, ‘in the Imperial Palace itself!’

‘And has that not swayed you from perpetrating such acts?’

Draga burst into a chilling laughter. ‘It has not swayed me, legionary, it has inspired me.’ The man’s eyes sparkled like a roaring fire under the shadows of his hood.

Pavo flinched at this, then squared his shoulders once more, all the while conscious of the shrinking band of legionaries amidst the Gothic noose, only paces away. Then one eagle was plucked from the crowd, a Goth holding aloft the standard and the severed head of a legionary. Pavo glanced at this spectacle for just a moment, then realised what a grave mistake he had made.

Like a viper uncoiling to strike its victim, Draga leapt for him with a flurry of sword hacks.

Pavo fell back, troubled by the man’s deft handling of the weapon. He could find time only to parry. Then his heel caught in a discarded conical helmet, and he crashed onto his back. In a flash, Draga had his swordpoint at Pavo’s jugular.

Draga let a serrated laugh escape his lips as he pressed the blade, the edge pricking Pavo’s skin. ‘Now send a prayer to Mithras, legionary, and perhaps you will meet your father in Hades!’

Pavo felt the phalera burning on his chest. Something in his heart roared, and he clawed at the blood-soaked earth by his sides as he waited on the death blow. Then words of advice echoed in his thoughts. But not those of the lost ambassador, Salvian. Instead, they were the words of Brutus — that grim-faced bull of a centurion who had welcomed him into legionary life with a regime of sadistic training torture. Now long dead, like so many others.

Don’t be a hero. . be a dirty bugger!

As the longsword split through the skin of his neck, Pavo cupped a handful of earth and gore and hurled it at Draga’s eyes. Draga staggered, blinded momentarily, the longsword retracting at the last.

Pavo pounced on the moment of respite, rising and hoisting his sword. He hacked forward, smashing at every one of Draga’s parries with a newfound vigour. ‘You call me legionary,’ he cried, ‘but you should know that I am Pavo of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis!’

Draga, startled, parried. Their swords smashed together again and again until the Viper ducked left and jabbed his longsword towards Pavo’s gut. Pavo jinked and swiped at the thrust, cleaving Draga’s sword hand clean off with a dull clunk of shearing bone.

With a roar, the Viper fell to his knees, biting into his bottom lip until blood spilled down his chin. Then he bowed his head and his chest shuddered, the green cloak rippling in a sudden breeze.

Pavo held his swordpoint to Draga’s chest, panting.

‘You can finish me, legionary,’ Draga rasped, squinting up at Pavo, ‘but my vision is already a reality.’

Pavo glanced over to the dying embers of the Roman last stand. Another two eagles were being passed back over the Gothic heads, along with the bloodied corpse of one of the comitatenses tribuni.

‘And know that with my death,’ Draga continued, ‘the truth about your father will evaporate also!’

Pavo’s stare shot back to Draga. His eyes bulged, his heart thundered. ‘You know Tarquitius’ secret?’

Draga nodded with a weak half-grin. His hood had fallen to his shoulders and he wore that open and earnest expression; for all the world he once again looked like the man Pavo had known as Salvian. ‘He talked incessantly when I held him prisoner in my tent. Serve yourself, Pavo. Drop your weapon and I will tell you everything in return.’

Pavo’s thoughts swirled in conflict. To live and learn the truth, or to die here with his brothers, honour intact. He clutched the phalera as a nauseous panic swam over him. Then, like a splash of ice-cold streamwater over his heart, Pavo realised what he had to do.

He dropped his spatha.

‘Good. . good. You have made a wise choice, lad,’ Draga purred, rising from his knees.

Pavo stared past Draga’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Draga’s face contorted into a demonic grimace; he whipped a dagger from his boot with his good hand, then sprung up, thrusting the blade for Pavo’s throat.

At once, Pavo’s eyes snapped round to fix on Draga’s. He swerved the cut and wrapped one arm around Draga’s neck. With the other hand he grappled at his assailant’s wrist, prising the blade from his grip and then turning it to rest the point upon Draga’s breastbone.

‘I knew in my soul that your blood ran black,’ Pavo panted, ‘but I had to let you prove it once more, to banish the doubts. Your army may be on the cusp of victory today, but your black heart will no longer lead them.’ Pavo’s expression grew cold, and he pushed the dagger into Draga’s chest. The man stared at him, those sharp green eyes sparkling, the manic half-grin defiant as the blade pierced his breastbone.

Then Pavo rammed the blade in to the hilt.

Hot blood washed over his knuckles as he watched Draga’s eyes dimming at last. With that, the body slumped to the ground.

The Viper was dead.

Pavo turned to see one eagle left in the middle of the Gothic swell. The ruby-red bull of the XI Claudia. Pride and sorrow rippled across his skin as he readied to rush for the fray, to die with his brothers.

He picked up a spear and a spatha and ran, screaming the last from his lungs, tears staining his cheeks.

Then he stopped.

They all stopped.

The air was filled with the cry of buccinas. Not just a few. Hundreds.

Pavo stared to the west. There, the foothills and the great mountain range behind shimmered in the dusky orange. Then, from the tips of the hills, twelve silver eagles soared into view, part-silhouetted by the setting sun. Under them fluttered twelve legionary banners. Pavo stood, eyes fixed on the unfamiliar emblems; dragons, wolves and bears. ‘It cannot be,’ he whispered, ‘the western legions?’

But again, the buccinas cried out. And now an iron wall appeared below the eagles; some fifteen thousand legionaries, and two ala of one thousand equites on fine and fresh mounts.

At this, the Gothic swell was instantly dwarfed. Their victorious battle cries of moments ago turned to wails of despair, and even Fritigern seemed stunned into silence. But as the western legions marched forward, the Gothic Iudex was sparked into action, roaring at his men to retreat, urging them to break northwards for the hills.

As the last light of day faded, the Goths fled, leaving behind a bloodied, battered, gasping group of men. Some would call them legionaries. Pavo knew them as brothers. Sura returned his knowing stare, and beside him were Gallus, Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix. The five, together with a handful of legionaries, spathas shaking in their grips, formed a tight circle around the XI Claudia standard and Traianus.

Pavo glanced down to see Draga’s empty eyes fixed in a dead stare at the sight.

Then he turned to the setting sun and felt its warmth on his skin.

‘Column, halt!’ Traianus bellowed as the noon sun baked the countryside of central Thracia. Then he nodded to the nearby stream. ‘Fall out, slake your thirst!’

Traianus watched as Comes Richomeres and his unruffled western legions calmly took to their rations. Not for the first time since waking this morning, he whispered a word of thanks into the ether for his foresight in summoning the western legions. Despite the cynicism of the officials in the capital, it was the first thing he had done upon reaching Constantinople from Antioch; they’ll never come, some said, they care more for the Frankish foederati than for their eastern brothers, others had sneered. Easy words for overfed togas who did not have to venture outside the fine walls of the capital, he mused wryly.

Then he turned to the stream; in contrast to Richomeres’ men, the beleagured survivors of the Battle of the Willows had downed their burdens and now lined the sides of the stream. Almost to a man, they had dropped to their knees, cupping the cool liquid in their hands to drink and soak cracked and bleeding lips. Then they filled skins and emptied them over sun-blistered scalps, before wading in to submerge their burning and scarred bodies completely.

Traianus could not suppress a smile at this. Then his face fell when he glanced to the north, his eyes hanging on the ethereal heat haze over the Haemus Mountains. As the bathing legionaries’ cries of relief rang out, he could see only the field of bones they had left behind yesterday; a portent of what was to come.

For the Gothic Wars had begun.

Then, once again, he saw the staring, dead eyes of the demon who had brought all this into being. Draga.

The man was black-hearted to the core, he insisted again.

But once more, doubt wriggled into his mind as he remembered that warm summer day on the wharf, all those years ago. The brutal slaying of the young Draga’s father. The boy’s deathly cold stare. Then, Traianus closed his eyes, biting his lip as he remembered the tear slipping from the orphaned Gothic boy’s cheek.

Did we make him what he became?

He mulled over the things he had seen in his years; as much as he loved the empire, he was all too often ashamed of the deeds of those who acted in her name. His gaze dropped to the ground; indeed, he had many reasons to be ashamed of himself.

Then, something caught his eye; a few paces away, a tiny pocket of the survivors of the battle had stayed back from the stream. Tribunus Gallus was addressing them. He recognised the faces of those who listened to Gallus’ every word; the big Thracian centurion and the equally hulking Gaulish one bookending the little fork-bearded primus pilus of the XI Claudia. Then there were the two lads; younger, but scarred and bearing the telltale grimaces of veterans now. Then one of the lads — the one with the cropped, dark hair and the beaky nose — stepped away from his colleagues, lifting some bronze trinket from his tunic, examining it.

This lad had done his legion proud yesterday, slaying the Viper and saving Traianus from the creature’s charge. At that moment, Traianus realised he had not thanked the lad, nor any of the others who had put their lives before his. Perhaps it is time I made amends?

He walked over to the legionary, squinting as the sunlight danced off the bronze medallion. Then he saw the markings on it as he approached. His eyes widened.

‘What’s your name, soldier?’ Traianus asked, stepping towards him.

Pavo looked up, standing to attention, staring into the distance past Traianus’ shoulder. ‘Legionary. . ’ he paused, blinking, before correcting himself, ‘. . Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo, sir!’

‘At ease, soldier. You have proved your worth to me a thousand times over with your actions yesterday.’

Thankfully the lad complied, relaxing his shoulders just a little and looking Traianus in the eye.

‘That’s a legionary phalera,’ Traianus noted, ‘Legio II Parthica?’

‘Yes,’ Pavo replied, his brow wrinkling, a spark of interest in his eyes, ‘my father died fighting for them, at the seige and sack of Bezabde.’

Traianus frowned, unsure how to approach this. ‘Bezabde? Are you sure?’

Pavo’s expression remained resigned. ‘I’m certain of it,’ he nodded. ‘He perished like the rest of the legion in that clash.’

Traianus shook his head, fixing his gaze on Pavo’s. ‘I don’t want to trouble your mind, lad, but not all of the Parthica were lost in Bezabde’s fall.’

Pavo’s eyes widened.

‘In the east, in the desert salt mines, many live on to this day. . ’