Viper of the North

Epilogue

High on the walls of Constantinople, Gallus closed his eyes, rested his palms on the baked battlements and let the brief, cooling breeze bathe his aching body. His wounds had been dressed and he had soaked in the tepidarium and caldarium for almost all of yesterday. This had helped to soothe the physical scars. Inside, though, the horrific death toll of the Battle of the Willows plagued his thoughts.

Gallus blinked open his eyes and looked across the shimmering domes, columns and acqueducts of the city. The streets were bustling as always, the populace eager to go about their daily duties; those who had lived their lives entirely within these walls were seemingly unaware of how close the Gothic horde had come to marching upon this great city. A hedonistic roar erupted from the Hippodrome at that moment, as if to underline his thoughts. One day, he thought, and one day soon, bigger walls would be needed to protect this place.

The Danubian borders were gone. The limitanei that remained — barely six legions, totalling less than ten thousand men — were now all stationed in the key strongholds south of the Haemus Mountains; the cities, towns and the raft of new forts that studded the southerly passes into those mountains. There they waited, their confidence shattered, on the next wave of Gothic attacks. And then there was the matter of the Huns. He shook his head, pinching the top of his nose.

‘Time will heal the gravest of wounds, Tribunus,’ Traianus spoke, emerging from the nearby gate tower.

‘I wish that were true,’ Gallus looked up as the magister militum approached. Then he closed his eyes again as the image of battle barged into his mind uninvited; the verdant plain in the morning, then the crimson plain in the evening, speckled with chunks of white bone, cleaved meat and staring, severed heads.

‘Even the greatest victories are stained with the blood of many good men, Tribunus,’ Traianus spoke solemnly, turning to face out of the city and across the countryside, along the throbbing Via Egnatia.

Gallus followed the magister militum’s gaze. Usually the great road that led all the way to Illyricum would be packed with wagons and migrants, flooding both to and from the capital to flog their wares and seek their fortunes. But today they came in one direction only; from the western horizon towards the Golden Gate, seeking shelter in the imperial capital. For while many inside the city dismissed the rumours of a Gothic invasion, those who lived outside knew differently. They had witnessed the great smoke plumes to the north, and then watched the bloodied survivors of the Battle of the Willows trudge south to be shepherded back to the capital. Panic would soon spread around this city, he realised.

Gallus shook his head. ‘We did not defeat the Goths, sir. Yes we broke them, halted their march to the south, and the Viper is dead. But his ambitions have been realised; Fritigern is still out there, in Moesia, roaming freely at the head of the largest Gothic army we have ever encountered. And the Huns will press south again when they have grazed the plains of Gutthiuda dry. The borders have fallen. I have failed. My mind cannot rest until I have righted things.’

Traianus smiled wryly at this. ‘And that is exactly the attitude I need from all of my soldiers.’

Gallus shared a moment of silence as they looked west, then he closed his eyes with a sigh.

‘Don’t let your spirits drop, Tribunus, for it is not over yet.’

Gallus turned to him. ‘Sir?’

Traianus scoured the north-western horizon. ‘Comes Richomeres will leave three legions with us before he returns to the west. Then, the remnants of the Danubian limitanei will be reformed to man the new frontiers. New soldiers will be levied from all corners of the empire. New armour and weapons will be forged by every smith in every city. We will fight this war with all we have.’

‘But can the empire fund such an initiative?’ Gallus gripped the battlements.

Traianus cocked an eyebrow. ‘Can it afford not to? In times past, emperors would baulk at stripping the empire of its dignity and its rich heritage in the face of neccesity. Even Emperor Valens hesitated before giving me this order.’ He turned to look Gallus in the eye, ‘But the order has been given. Churches and palaces are being stripped of gold as we speak.’

Gallus’ eyes widened, and he turned to squint back over the shimmering city; sure enough, workmen spidered across the domes and rooftops, and the tink-tink of chisels and hammers rang out. Even the churches were being stripped of their gold and silver Chi-Rho crests. So the Christian God truly does aid our cause, he thought, wryly, thumbing the idol of Mithras in his purse. He twisted back to look to the north, now the realm of the Goths. Then, memories of the wail of their war horns echoed through his mind. His train of thought ended with an icy shiver.

‘But you should ease your mind of the troubles of this land,’ Traianus continued, ‘for a short time at least. Emperor Valens asked me to take note of the better men in your legion. He has a job for you elsewhere. A place where trouble is rife.’

‘Sir?’ Gallus frowned.

A roar of drunken joy erupted across the sun-baked courtyard attached to the inn, rivalling the cry from the nearby Hippodrome. The crowds bustling through the market stalls of the Augusteum twisted for a moment, peering over the ivy-clad half-wall to see the source of the joviality; a circle of bandaged men in legionary tunics, crowded around one table. Then, with a decisive thud, cups, ale and wine fountained up into the air from the midst of the circle.

‘Whoreson!’ Zosimus spat, wrenching his hand from the arm wrestling contest.

Laughter broke out as Quadratus grinned back at him, a hundred hands slapping the big Gaulish centurion’s back.

‘Easy!’ Quadratus winced as one well-wisher slapped a little too hard on his stitched shoulder blade.

‘Rematch!’ Zosimus demanded, stabbing a finger into the table as Felix started handing out winnings from the gambling pot.

‘Leave it out,’ the primus pilus called back, ‘even I could beat you.’

At this, Zosimus roared. ‘Right, get over here!’

A roar of laughter erupted once more at this, and a perplexed-looking Felix could not fend off the other legionaries as they swept him back to the table to make good on his assertion.

Sitting at a table in the corner, Pavo looked on. A smile touched just one side of his lips as he watched them. Then it dissolved as he realised who he had picked up this habit from. He swirled his cup and took another swig of the bittersweet ale, then turned back to Felicia, nestled beside him. Her blue eyes sparkled as she looked up to him, and she had applied a striking ochre to her lips, stark against her milky skin.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he stroked her hair, pleated into two tails, ‘even more so now that you’re smiling again. It seems like a long time since I’ve seen you so happy.’

She placed a hand on his knee. ‘It’s been harder than anything to let go of it, Pavo, harder even than losing Curtius in the first place. But I have let it go, and it feels like a dark cloud has been blown from my heart.’ She looked around to check no others could hear her, then glanced to the twenty five brimming cups of ale at an unoccupied table — the legionaries’ tribute to optio Avitus. ‘I don’t take any comfort from Avitus’ death. Had he survived, I can only hope that I would still have been true to my new convictions.’

Pavo nodded. The drinking had begun with a solemn toast to the little Roman. And beforehand, he and Felicia had decided that Avitus’ past as a speculatore was to remain a secret. More, Pavo had kept Avitus’ final revelation to himself; to tell Felicia that Curtius had been killed en route to assasinating Gallus would only stain her memories of her brother. No, what was done was done, and Avitus was gone. The little Roman had fought like a lion as a legionary since those days — perhaps, Pavo mused, to repent for some of the sins he had commited at the order of his shadowy superiors?

‘He wanted you to know how sorry he was,’ Pavo said, his mind drifting to that moment in the heat of battle when Avitus had bled his last. ‘Neither your father nor Curtius, nor Avitus for that matter, would have wanted you to live in bitterness.’

She did not reply, instead closing her eyes and nodding with a gentle smile. A single tear escaped her closed eyelids. ‘I’ll never forget them,’ she spoke softly, ‘but now I have you, Pavo.’

Then she rested her head against his chest. He nuzzled into her amber locks and wrapped an arm around her, breathing in her sweet scent. He closed his eyes. This was it, he thought. Felicia was his woman and the rugged veterans of the XI Claudia were his brothers. Neither were his blood, but all were his family.

But they’re not Father, a voice whispered in his mind again.

He blinked open his eyes and realised he was unwittingly thumbing the bronze phalera through his tunic. He frowned; every legionary from Illyricum to Constantinople would be vital in the war against the Goths, it seemed. His future lay in these lands. But Traianus’ words burned in his thoughts.

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

His mind flitted to the dunes from his dream. What if. .?

‘We have our home here now,’ Felicia spoke, her voice half-muffled as she pushed against his chest, ‘and perhaps one day we could open an inn, just like The Boar in Durostorum?’

He kissed the top of her head and rubbed her shoulders, the idea soothing his thoughts.

But what of Father? The voice came again.

He pinched at the top of his nose, screwing up his eyes to clear his mind.

Then, a cry erupted from the cluster of legionaries and Zosimus stood, arms in the air, roaring in victory, his face beetroot-red. ‘Yes!’ He cried.

The winnings were handed out. Then a rather merry Sura bounded over and sat, causing the table to shudder. Pavo caught his cup just as it was about to spill, then shot his friend a grin, which Sura returned with interest.

‘Made a killing,’ Sura said with a hint of a slur to his voice, extending his hand to reveal a pile of folles. ‘Next round is on me! Pavo, you need some more ale by the looks of it.’

Pavo shrugged, eyebrows raised, feeling the sweet giddiness of the first cup swirling behind his eyes. ‘Aye, make it a large one,’ he grinned.

‘Felicia?’ Sura asked.

‘I’ll stick to water, thank you,’ she replied, a hint of disapproval in her voice as she glanced up to Pavo and then back to Sura.

Pavo smiled as Sura swaggered back to the bar and pushed through to get served. Then he noticed from the corner of his eye that a tall, lean figure had entered the courtyard.

Tribunus Gallus swept his wolven glare around the scene of his drunken legionaries. Instinctively, Pavo sat straighter, squaring his shoulders. He moved his ale cup out of view, hoping the Tribunus might not see him, tucked in here at the corner of the courtyard.

‘XI Claudia!’ Gallus barked.

At once, the crowd turned to Gallus and stiffened to attention. The Tribunus’ nose wrinkled as he eyed the spilled ale cups and then glared at the isolated figure of Sura, halfway back from the bar, standing in his best legionary rigidity with a foaming cup of ale in each hand.

‘Come dawn the day after tomorrow, I want you to muster at the northern city barracks.’

Pavo and the legionaries of the XI Claudia shared nervous glances. Was the next stage of the Gothic War upon them already?

‘A vexillatio is to be identified and despatched to Antioch. . ’ Gallus turned to the corner of the courtyard to look Pavo in the eye. For just a heartbeat, the Tribunus’ lips were touched with that elusive hint of a smile. ‘We’re going east!’

Pavo’s heart thundered. He glanced to Sura, then to Felicia.

The phalera burned on his chest.