Viper of the North

Chapter 3

Over central Gutthiuda, the sky was an unbroken blue, the land was speckled silver with frost, and the tang of woodsmoke and roasting boar spiced the air. Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Felix crouched in the tall grass by a small spruce thicket, examining the nearby Gothic farming settlement. The settlement consisted of a cluster of thatch-roofed stallhouses and a barn, where Gothic families tended to their chickens and goats. All this was set before the backdrop of the grey-black, jagged basalt peaks of the Carpates Mountains, rising from the end of the plain like fangs to mark the edge of Fritigern’s territory and the start of Athanaric’s dominion, the dark side of Gutthiuda.

Gallus scoured the land around the settlement, his breath clouding before him, his gaunt features drawn and his ice-blue eyes narrowing on every hint of movement. One hand rested on his plumed intercisa, by his side, and he ran the fingers of the other through his dark, grey-flecked peak of hair before reaching down to thumb the small, wooden idol of Mithras in his purse. Silently, he prayed to the god of the legions for two things; glory and death. To lead his men well and meet an honourable end would be perfect. For only death could reunite him with her. Olivia.

‘Sir?’ Felix nudged him, pointing to the north.

Gallus blinked, angry with himself for allowing dark emotion to cloud his thoughts. He turned to his primus pilus; the little Greek stroked his forked beard and screwed up his eyes as the tall grass across the plain rippled briefly. Then a lone rider burst onto the plain.

The pair tensed, readying to run for their mounts, tethered in the trees nearby. Then Gallus held up a hand as he realised it was just a farm boy. ‘No, it’s not them.’

With a muted sigh, the two sunk down into the tall grass again and Gallus suppressed a curse. Being still like this all morning meant the bitter cold had gnawed through their woollen trousers and tunics and into their bones. He just hoped that if and when the rebel Goths showed up, they would be supple enough to ride, allowing them to carry out their plan.

He examined the map again; the four red dots indicated the pattern of the rebels’ movements, and by that logic, this settlement would be their next target. Of course, he mused, there was more than one group of rebels, but all he needed was to catch one of them, to find out more about their cause. But so far it had been like chasing shadows; the rebels would raze or pillage a settlement and then vanish before the Romans or Fritigern’s men could get to the scene.

‘By the end of today, sir, we’ll have one of these whoresons, and we’ll get them talking,’ Felix said, judging his tribunus’ thoughts well.

‘I’ve got a fair idea what they will say,’ Gallus mused, his eyes narrowing on the Carpates once more.

‘You’re certain it’s Athanaric’s men, aren’t you?’ Felix asked.

‘That dog has been spoiling for a fight for years,’ Gallus replied. ‘He’s had a hand in every modicum of trouble I have experienced in my time with the Claudia. Every single one.’

Felix frowned. ‘But what about the reports — that the rebels ride not in Athanaric’s colours, but under some ancient banner?’

Gallus turned to him, one eyebrow cocked. ‘A distraction, Felix; sleight of hand. That’s all it is. Athanaric is at least as shrewd as he is belligerent.’

‘Aye,’ Felix shrugged, ‘this is true. It doesn’t bode well for the poor sods who have to go into those mountains when the peace talks are finally arranged.’

Gallus sought his next words carefully; the peace talks with Athanaric were due to take place as soon as an ambassadorial party could be summoned and briefed. Dux Vergilius had advised Gallus that, when the time came, he and his vexillatio would be escorting the party into Athanaric’s dominion, to Dardarus, the fortified citadel in the heart of the Carpates. He thought better of discussing this now, instead reaching into his pack to pull a piece of hardtack from it.

‘Eat, it will fight the cold from your bones,’ he said, crunching into the biscuit and gesturing to his most trusted man to do likewise.

‘Agreed,’ Felix grinned wryly. Then he lifted his soured wineskin to his lips, ‘and a little of this will warm the blood too!’ With that, Felix gulped down a mouthful of soured wine and rummaged in his pack.

Gallus folded the map. Then he stopped, his eyes narrowing, touching a hand to the frozen ground. He felt it again, the tremors of approaching riders. He looked up; Felix stared back, wide eyed, the wine-skin hovering at his lips.

‘Mount!’ Gallus roared.

Felix threw down the wine sack, then the pair leapt onto their horses just as a pack of some hundred Gothic riders burst over the northern horizon and swept down towards the settlement.

It was them: the rebels. They rode in silence at first, braided locks billowing, lying flat over their saddles. Then as they approached the settlement they sat upright, punching their spears in the air, throwing out a trilling battle cry. At this, the Gothic farmers dropped their buckets, tools and bundles and ran for the stallhouses, screaming. One elderly villager’s cry was cut short with the swing of a longsword, a crimson spray puffing up and over the rebel who had slain him. Then the rest of the riders ploughed into the slower of the fleeing villagers, hacking, slicing and stabbing.

Gallus heeled his fawn stallion round to the south. He lifted his spatha, waving the iron blade towards a seemingly deserted patch of plain some two hundred feet south of the farm settlement. ‘First century, forward!’

Then, like an iron asp, the one hundred and sixty men of the first cohort, first century rose from the tall grass. They had been decked out in the precious remainder of unblemished armour: mail vests over fresh white, purple-edged woollen tunics — with their linen spares underneath to fend off the chill — and woollen, ruby cloaks. They carried freshly painted ruby and gold shields and spathas, spears and plumbatae — the lead weighted darts clipped in to the rear of their shields. The iron fins of their helmets split the tall grass like a school of sharks as they marched forward.

‘And let them know who we are!’ Gallus cried. As he and Felix heeled their mounts into a canter and then a gallop around the flank of the approaching riders, his skin rippled with pride as he heard the baritone roar of the legionaries, backed by the smashing of sword hilts on shield bosses.

‘They know all right!’ Felix cackled.

Gallus looked over to see the hundred Gothic riders’ charge faltering, more than half having halted altogether, heads looking this way and that at this unexpected appearance of the legion. ‘Ya!’ he roared, squeezing his heels into his stallion’s flanks.

‘They’re turning, sir, they’re turning around!’ Felix bellowed over the chill rush of air and hoofbeats.

‘Then let’s make sure they turn in to the valley!’ Gallus cried back.

As the first century marched on at a jog, Gallus and Felix galloped round to the north until they were within a few hundred paces of the rebel Goths. Here, just as Gallus had hoped, the rebel riders had reached a forking in the flat land ahead; one path led to the northeast and the forests, the other led into the winding valleys that hugged the base of the Carpates. And if Athanaric has anything to do with this, then they’ll stay close to his beloved mountains. As the Goths veered left and into the valley, his eyes narrowed. It was time to find out who these rogues were.

He turned to Felix. ‘You think he will be ready for them?’

Felix nodded. ‘Zosimus? Aye, ready and eager, as always.’

Gallus turned back to the valley. ‘Then send up the fire signal.’

A felled spruce trunk was balanced precariously on the eastern ridge of the valley. Behind it, Centurion Zosimus lay prone in the frozen grass. He shivered as he chewed on a strip of salt beef, then rubbed at his anvil of a jaw, numb from the cold, then wrinkled his battered nose as he watched the mouth of the pass.

Still nothing.

The forty men of his century lying alongside him had remained quiet in this frozen wilderness, but he could sense their frustration growing. He glanced across to the opposite ridge and the spruce trunk balanced there; the other forty of his century behind it were no doubt grumbling unchecked over there.

Then his optio, Paulus, broke the silence. ‘If the tribunus is wrong about this, sir, we could be waiting here all day in the frozen grass,’ he mused, squinting up at the winter morning sun, scratching at his bearded chin.

‘The tribunus is never wrong,’ Zosimus cast his optio a dark look. He waited until Paulus’ features paled, then grinned; ‘or so he would have you believe.’

Paulus reflected his centurion’s grin.

Zosimus sighed. ‘Look, I know how you’re all feeling: I can barely feel my own arse anymore, but here, pass this around,’ Zosimus lifted up his wineskin, then fell silent, realising it was already empty. His face fell into a scowl once more as he threw it down, then muttered; ‘I just hope Fritigern appreciates all we’re doing for him. Marching around a bloody frozen Hades to catch the men his lot should be dealing with. . ’

His words trailed off when an orange streak sped into the sky from the plains beyond. Then his eyes grew wide as they fell from the fiery missile to the cluster of Gothic riders who had raced into the valley, blonde locks billowing in their wake.

‘Ready yourselves,’ he batted a hand across Paulus’ chest, scowled along the forty who lined the ridge with him, then waved the other hand at those on the opposite ridge. He grappled at the felled spruce trunk that lay before them, his fingers blue and numb as he searched for purchase. Then, as he and his men took the weight of the timber, he hissed to them; ‘Push!’

The Gothic riders raced along the valley floor at pace, and the log seemed determined not to crest the ridge of the valley. He growled, his trunk-like arms shuddering and his boots gouging frozen earth from the ground until, finally, the weight of the log was gone. He and his men rushed onto the lip to see the logs from either edge hurtling down the valley sides, converging on the path of the rebel riders.

The Gothic riders noticed when they had only moments to react. Some leapt clear of the logs, some mounts reared up and their riders fell to the ground, others pulled up short and hurled their riders forward. Those caught in the path of the colliding logs were shattered like kindling; pained whinnying, screaming and the snapping of man and animal bones echoed through the valley.

Before they could reform, Zosimus swept his sword over his head, racing down the hillside at the head of his men.

‘Charge!’ He roared.

‘Yes. . yes!’ Gallus growled, the bitter chill rushing past him as he sped forward at a gallop into the valley. His eyes were fixed on the form of Centurion Zosimus; the big Thracian was leading his century like a lion, silhouetted in the morning sun. The screaming of iron upon iron rang out and the stench of spilled guts was rife.

He flexed his fingers and gripped on his spatha hilt again and again, casting an eye back over his shoulder to see that the hundred and sixty of the first century were not far behind. The jaws of the trap were swinging shut. The truth lay within his grasp.

‘Bring them forward, in formation!’ Gallus bawled.

‘Aye, sir!’ Felix roared, dropping back to the right of the approaching line of legionaries. Then, when they were less than a hundred paces from the skirmish, he roared; ‘Plumbatae! Ready!’

At once the line rippled, each man presenting one of the three rapier-tipped darts clipped to the rear of their shields. ‘Loose!’ The pack of Gothic riders was shattered as the Roman hail streaked through the air and smashed into their midst.

‘That’s it! Break them!’ Gallus cried as a second and third volley were loosed. ‘Now, Felix, with me!’ He roared, heeling his mount into a charge to speed ahead of the rushing legionaries.

He and Felix raced into the flank of the pack of Gothic riders where two of them were hacking at one of Zosimus’ bloodied legionaries. The nearest of the riders, a fiery-bearded man, swept the legionary’s head clear of his shoulders, then turned, growling, just in time to parry Gallus’ strike. Gallus swivelled in his saddle and flicked his spatha up to grasp it overhand, then stabbed down through the Goth’s collarbone. Blood jetted from the wound and the Goth’s angry grimace melted into a grey, empty stare in moments as he slid from his mount like a sack of wet sand.

Then a longsword swept past Gallus’ face, scoring his cheek. His counter-swipe at the attacking Goth fell short due to his mount shuffling back from the fray. To Hades with this, he snorted, then slid from the saddle. This is where the legionary fights, he affirmed as his boots hit the ground. Then a familiar misty red veil descended over his vision as he slotted onto the end of the approaching legionary line, raising his shield.

‘At them!’ He bellowed.

The cold seemed to fall away as the legionary line smashed into the Gothic riders. He hacked, stabbed and parried. All around, he saw his comrades fighting, teeth bared, the whites of their eyes bulging. Then he saw one Gothic warrior, nearly as broad as he was tall, grinning like a demon as he drove his longsword through the throat of a legionary. Gallus growled and lunged for the man, sending a left hook smashing into the giant’s jaw. The big man turned to face Gallus, but stumbled on the severed leg of a legionary. Crunching back onto the gore-coated ground, the giant scrabbled backwards on his palms and Gallus stalked after him, spatha raised to strike.

The big Goth brought his longsword up with a roar, parrying Gallus’ strike. Then he used the moment of respite to stand tall once more, and a terrible grin split his scarred features as he came at the tribunus. A sideswipe with the giant blade came within inches of hacking Gallus’ face off, and suddenly the tribunus was on the back foot.

Gallus ducked another swipe of the blade, wincing at the crunch of bone as it took the top off a less fortunate legionary’s head. The big Goth stamped forward through the grey mush that toppled from the stricken soldier’s skull, then hefted his blade up with two hands and hammered it down at Gallus. The tribunus could only hold his spatha horizontal to deflect the blow, sparks showering and scorching his cheeks as he fell back. Prone, he could only watch as the Goth raised the longsword again for a death blow.

Then, with a flash of iron, the Goth’s severed head thudded onto his chest. The giant’s body still stood, sword aloft in two hands, blood pumping from the stump that was his neck. A hand grasped the Goth’s shoulder and pulled the body back, where it toppled to the ground, legs and arms thrashing. Zosimus stood there, brushing his hands together. The roar of battle died all around him as the last few Goths were slain, and one was barged to the ground and disarmed.

‘Job done, sir,’ the big Thracian panted, offering Gallus a bloodied forearm.

‘Not yet,’ Gallus clasped a hand to the centurion’s forearm and hoisted himself to standing. The blood was still pounding in his ears and he could only hear his men’s victory cries as a dull ringing. Then he turned to see Felix cupping the last surviving Goth by the jaw, frowning. ‘But if Mithras is with us we’ll get to the bottom of this rebellion. Let’s hear what this cur has to say.’

‘Seems Mithras has played a cruel joke on us, sir,’ Felix said dryly. ‘This one won’t be talking.’

Gallus frowned at Felix, then turned to scrutinise the Goth. The man was smiling, but his eyes burned like hot coals, and he clutched a rolled up piece of dark-green hide in his hand, shaking it as if in victory. Then his smile grew until hoarse laughter poured from his lips. Gallus recoiled at the sight of the blistered stump that remained of his tongue. ‘What in Hades?’ He shot a glance to Felix.

Then, as quickly as the man had started laughing, his face fell into a grimace and he pulled the tip of a plumbata from the hide roll and then leapt for Gallus. Gallus jinked to one side, pulled his spatha from his scabbard once more and swept it up, across the Goth’s chest, smashing his rib cage. The man fell to the grass, greying, his eyes growing distant, but fixed on Gallus. Gallus looked to the man, then to each of his legionaries, then to the dark-green banner that unfurled on the ground before them to reveal an ancient Gothic banner.

From the centre of the banner, an emblem of a writhing viper stared back at them.

The orange of dawn cast long shadows across the marching camp, set upon a rise in the plains of Gutthiuda. Gallus eyed his men as they tucked into steaming bowls of millet porridge; uninspiring at any other time, the slop was going down like freshly baked pheasant now. But while his men filled their groaning bellies and warmed their blood, he hadn’t eaten properly for two days. An irksome voice insisted he sit and eat with his legionaries, but a sense of unease about this whole mission just wouldn’t allow him to comply.

Once again his gaze was drawn northeast, to the looming grey wall that was the Carpates Mountains. Then he turned his gaze down to the banner and the viper emblem, then sat on a log and rubbed his temples; there had to be an answer to this riddle. Yet numerous vexillationes were out here chasing that answer, and the longer they were out here, the longer the major crossing points on the Danubius were left weakened.

He picked up a twig and began tracing out the river in a patch of earth, marking the XI Claudia fort and the town of Durostorum, then the next nearest major fort some seventy miles to the west. Then he moved the twig back to Durostorum and traced a thin line across the river to represent the accursed pontoon bridge.

‘Big Quadratus would defend that bridge on his own if he had to, sir,’ Felix offered, nodding to the etching in the ground.

Gallus gave his primus pilus a wry gaze. ‘Aye, he would. Precious few of his like left in the legion, Felix.’

Felix sat next to him. ‘And don’t forget Avitus; he’d be fighting by Quadratus’ side till the last.’

Gallus nodded. ‘But those two aside, we’re down to men with little over a year’s soldiering experience.’

‘And there are only a few of them,’ Felix said. ‘Pavo has potential. He’s a fine fighter.’

‘Fighters I’ll take, any day of the week, but its leaders we need, Felix.’

Felix nodded. ‘Then Pavo will take the route every other legionary has; he’ll die a fighter or he’ll emerge as a leader.’

Gallus almost grinned at this.

‘And what about Sura,’ Felix asked. ‘He’s a slippery bugger. Got an eye for a plan, that one.’

Then a gruff voice butted in. It was Zosimus, licking the last of the porridge from his bowl. ‘Sura? You’ve got to be kidding. That lad’s not all there,’ he tapped a finger to his temple, ‘bloody mental, he is!’ With that, the big Thracian sucked a mouthful of soured wine from his skin and emitted a belch that scattered the birds from the nearby spruce thicket. Then, with a chuckle, he wandered off to berate his legionaries.

‘And then there’s Zosimus. . ’ Felix sighed, grinning at Gallus. ‘Sir?’

But Gallus’ attention was elsewhere; the sentries by the gateposts were calling down for the gates to be opened. He stood and walked towards the main gate. A rider entered then dismounted and stumbled through the eating legionaries. He came to Gallus, panting, then gulped a breath in and saluted.

‘Quintus Livius Ennius, of the Cursus Publicus. I bring a message for Tribunus Gallus from,’ he took in more air and held out the scroll in a trembling grasp, ‘Comes Lupicinus of the XI Claudia.’

At this, the seated legionaries issued a harmonised groan.

Gallus did not react, other than to raise one eyebrow. ‘By Mithras, Ennius, that is a double blow. Comes Lupicinus is bad enough, but Comes Lupicinus of the XI Claudia?’ He took the scroll and snapped the wax seal. Unfurling it, he noticed all eyes were upon him.

‘Get this lad some porridge, then break camp and be ready to march before the sun’s fully up!’ He barked. The men of the vexillatio slunk away to begin disassembling the tents.

Gallus’ eyes then darted across the scrawl on the paper.

. . the parley with Athanaric will take place imminently and takes priority over all activity in Fritigern’s lands. Proceed to Wodinscomba, then wait. An ambassadorial party and a legionary escort have been despatched to that location to meet you there. .

Gallus frowned; the hollow at Wodinscomba demarcated the end of Fritigern’s territory and the start of Athanaric’s, and was certainly not a place any Roman would want to linger. He looked up at Ennius, brow furrowed. ‘When was this order given?’

‘Three days ago, sir,’ Ennius panted through blue lips and a mouthful of porridge.

‘And the escort?’ Gallus frowned.

Ennius shook his head. ‘A vexillatio levied from the XI Claudia, sir.’

Gallus punched a fist into his palm. ‘Mithras!’ He spat. So another vexillatio had been gouged from the already husk-like legion. As a soldier, this concerned him. As a man, it felt as though his home was being looted in his absence, and it irked him to think of Lupicinus assuming command of the place so readily.

Ennius looked momentarily startled.

‘At ease, rider, my ire is not directed at you,’ Gallus said. He gazed southeast to the dark forest, issuing a prayer to Mithras for the vexillatio that was to march from the safety of the empire and into this gods-forsaken land.