The gale had eased and now the snow fell silently over the upper Danubius. Pavo waited in line as each of the weary column hopped from the northern bank, across a gangplank and onto the Roman trade cog that Gallus had abruptly commandeered from the riverside. The portly ship’s captain had suffered an apparent loss of hearing when the tribunus had first hailed him, but a few well aimed plumbatae had remedied that.
The already heavily burdened cog sunk lower in the water as each of the legionaries hopped onto the ship. Gallus stood on the deck, waving each of them aboard. ‘That’s it, lads! As soon as we’re off the banks we can eat, slake our thirst and set sail for home.’
Pavo stalked across the plank and thudded onto the deck; treading on wood felt good after nearly seven days of relentless marching through knee-deep snow with only fleeting breaks to rest. They had hunted and foraged along the way, sheltering in caves when the storm grew too fierce to continue.
He trudged past the captain, whose face grew darker the further his vessel sunk into the water. Then he sidled over to Sura, who had already pulled his hardtack and mutton ration from his pack and was chewing on it like a starved wolf.
‘Hunger is a spice for any meal, eh?’ Pavo sighed as he took off his helmet then set down his shield and pack to sit by his friend, letting the tension ease from his body. Still munching, Sura offered Pavo a piece of hardtack in lieu of a reply. He took it, snapped the piece in two and crunched into one half, then washed it down with a generous swig of soured wine. All around him, the legionaries groaned as they loosened their boots and burdens likewise.
The gangplank was withdrawn and the cog set off downriver. Pavo sighed as he took another swig of wine. The liquid was tart on his tongue and instantly warmed his blood. He watched as Gallus strode around the deck, offering words of encouragement to his men. It had been a seamless and natural transition of command; the survivors of his fifty merging with Gallus’ vexillatio. Even Crito and the rest of Lupicinus’ men behaved like model soldiers under Gallus’ gaze. The mere presence of the tribunus had driven them on, even when they were at their weakest. And, at last, Pavo was back in the ranks. It was what he had craved since Lupicinus had forced command upon him, but now that it had been taken away he felt a stinging shame on his skin. He did not resent Gallus in any way; instead, he loathed himself.
Crito ambled past, groaning, rubbing a hand across the small of his back. Pavo braced for either a sneer or some barbed comment, but instead, the veteran simply gave him a nod. Pavo wondered if he had won some modicum of respect from the grizzled veteran, or if Crito now no longer saw him as some kind of threat or affront now that he was a mere grunt again. His mood darkened.
‘You’ll get your chance again, lad,’ a familiar voice spoke beside him.
He looked up to see Salvian. The ambassador was still lithe and looked comparatively fresh for a non-military man who had just been subjected to such a march. If anything, he looked in better shape than many of the legionaries.
‘My chance? I’m not sure I want it,’ Pavo spoke in a hushed tone, expecting Salvian to chuckle at this and hoping Sura by his other side would not hear him.
But the ambassador shook his head, his sharp features sincere. ‘You were magnificent back at the pass. Your tribunus has commented on this more than once since then. It’s not a matter of whether you will be given a leader’s role, Pavo, but when. I meant what I said before, you know; your father would have been proud of you,’ Salvian continued unabated.
Pavo nodded firmly, hoping the moisture welling in his eyes at the sentiment wasn’t visible. He realised he was looking at Senator Tarquitius, stood alone at the prow of the ship. The senator still cut a haunted figure and had barely uttered a word since the skirmish at the pass.
Salvian followed his gaze and then smiled. ‘Ah, yes, the senator’s demands of you. Have you made your decision – will you humour him?’
Pavo frowned. He had barely had time to think over Tarquitius’ demands for garrison information.
Salvian sighed. ‘I’m sorry, your mind is troubled enough. Think only of where we are headed, the fort, your woman . . . ’ he finished with a half-grin. With that, Salvian strolled over to a cluster of legionaries, accepted the offer of a wineskin, then immediately had them roaring in laughter with some quip.
Pavo looked to Salvian, and then to Tarquitius again at the opposite end of the boat. To betray my legion and learn the truth? His mind filled with a collage of all the times he had been a whisker from death at the end of a barbarian blade. Father had fallen to such a blade. He thought over Salvian’s words in the forest just a handful of nights previous. If you choose well, you are blessed; if you choose poorly, you will be stronger for it. Perhaps it is time to serve yourself? He nodded; maybe it was time to sacrifice a sliver of honour.
He lifted his soured wineskin once more and took a generous swig. Then he strode over to Tarquitius, rested his hands on the prow and looked downriver to the same distant point the senator’s gaze was fixed on.
‘I will do as you ask. But on one condition; you must promise me that no lives will be lost from whatever . . . initiative you have planned.’
The senator remained silent, staring downriver. Pavo frowned. ‘Senator?’ he said, his voice low.
Then Tarquitius turned to him, face ghostly-white, eyes bulging and distant, sweat snaking across his forehead despite the cold. The Senator’s lips trembled as he spoke. ‘I have no need of the Sardica information now.’
Pavo’s blood boiled at this. ‘What?’ he hissed. ‘Is this some kind of game to you? You dangle some truth in front of me and then tear it away! You will tell me what you know of my father!’ Pavo snarled.
Tarquitius’ haunted expression did not change despite Pavo’s ire. Staring through him, the senator muttered; ‘I can never tell you.’
Pavo felt his hands tremble, and the urge to wrap them around the senator’s fat neck was overwhelming. Then he felt the eyes of the other legionaries on them. ‘This is not over,’ he snorted in disgust, then took another mouthful of wine and strode to the side of the vessel, his breaths coming short and shallow.
He leant over the side; the rippling water growing hypnotic. Perhaps this was fate telling him he had made the wrong choice, he mused. He felt his mind grow giddy as the wine took hold, and this lifted his spirit just a fraction, pushing the senator’s game from his thoughts. But, almost immediately, the grim truth of what might be waiting on them downriver came flooding in to replace it. He longed to learn that Felicia was safe, and he searched the swirling rapids as if looking for some confirmation of this.
He turned from the edge of the vessel and made to take another swig of soured wine, but stopped, seeing Gallus walk over to him.
‘Drink your fill, Pavo. Mithras knows you’ve earned it.’
Pavo nodded, then looked into the mouth of the skin and sighed. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said, putting the cork back in place. ‘I feel it may taste far sweeter once we have set eyes upon Durostorum and the fort and are sure all is well there.’
Gallus frowned.
‘It’s the Hun horde we saw, sir. Every time I think back over it, I am sure it must have been a nightmare,’ he shook his head, ‘but it was real, and I fear that we may be returning too late.’
‘Then you are not alone.’ Gallus looked downriver pensively. ‘A game is being played, Pavo. The Huns will show no mercy to Fritigern’s people, and I just know Athanaric is embroiled in their arrival.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘But this . . . Viper, I fear he is no shade. We have both seen the rebels and their devotion to the Viper’s cause. Men do not fight for shades, Pavo. Yet this creature has so far remained invisible . . . and the most deadly enemy is the one you cannot see.’
At that moment, a distant moan of a Gothic war horn sounded downriver. The entire crew of the cog froze.
Pavo and Gallus stared at one another.
Avitus could only stare at the sight; the rush of the rapids and the rapping of hooves filled the air as the Gothic cavalry rumbled over the timber bridge, snow churning in their wake.
Every fibre in his being screamed to run or draw his spatha, but he noticed that the riders did not move at a charge. They looked weary and nervous and their weapons were sheathed. More, behind the warriors on the far bank, many thousands of Gothic women, children and elderly had emerged from the forests, their faces gaunt and staring like lost souls. He glanced to Quadratus; the big Gaul stepped backwards from the riverbank and crouched by the puffy, blue-skinned corpse of the snake handler. His eyes never left the far riverbank as he snatched the long dagger from the dead man’s belt.
‘What is this? Do they come in peace?’ Avitus said.
‘Aye, so it seems,’ Quadratus nodded as he stood. Then he turned to the rest of the legion; some were stumbling into a run for the fort, others were levelling their spears, eyes wide in panic. ‘Sheathe your weapons!’ the big Gaul cried. But even as the words left his lips, one legionary roared in a mix of terror and bravado, hurling a plumbata at the foremost Gothic rider who was halfway across the bridge. The dart punched through the man’s jaw and sent him sliding onto the pontoon bridge.
‘You bloody fool,’ Avitus gawped at the legionary who had thrown the dart. It was Ursus, one of Lupicinus’ men, and he had already turned to run for the fort. At this, other legionaries hurled their spears and darts at the approaching riders before turning tail. Three more Goths were punched from their mounts by the hail.
On the bridge, a rabble of confusion grew amongst the Goths, then boiled over into a cacophony of anguished cries as word of the slayings spread. The riders around the slain men cried out and drew their longswords. Then, like a porcupine presenting its spines, all those behind followed suit. As one, the Gothic cavalry broke into a charge.
‘Oh, bollocks!’ Quadratus bundled the recruits back towards the fort. ‘Run, you bloody idiots, run!’
Avitus turned to run with the big centurion, then stopped short as he saw Felicia. Her face was torn in a scowl, stalking round to the rear of Quadratus, a curved iron dagger in her hand. He leapt for her, grappling her by the arm so the dagger fell to the snow.
‘Get your hands off me,’ she hissed, her breath clouding in the air.
‘Sorry, miss. No time for manners or we’re all dead,’ he spoke gruffly, shoving her towards the fort gates.
Her eyes narrowed on Quadratus as she backed away before turning to run for the fort. At that moment, Avitus realised that she knew. Or at least she thought she knew. She had found his scroll and assumed that it belonged to Quadratus, framing the big Gaul for the wage theft.
Then a ham-like hand grappled his tunic collar and yanked him forward as well.
‘Move!’ Quadratus bawled in his ear.
The pair set off at a sprint, the ground shaking beneath them from the chasing cavalry. Up ahead, Lupicinus sprinted at the head of the Roman retreat, all decorum and smug majesty from moments ago discarded. They stumbled past the four-pronged ballista and Avitus growled. ‘Never even got a single shot away!’
Quadratus pulled him along. ‘Just keep your eyes on the gate, we’re almost there . . . ’ his words were cut off by the crunch of a Gothic spear ripping through the chest of a recruit who had stumbled just ahead of him.
‘Death to the Romans!’ a Gothic voice cried.
Avitus shot a look over his shoulder; Fritigern and his retinue of riders followed the charging cavalry, but while the lead riders’ faces were twisted in fury, the Gothic Iudex was roaring at them, gesticulating, waving them back. ‘Stop, you fools,’ Fritigern roared at his men, ‘the Romans are not our enemies!’ But the charging cavalry were deaf to their leader’s pleas.
Avitus faced front again. Then his shins thwacked into something, and he and Quadratus tumbled to the ground, ploughing into the deep snow.
Avitus scrambled to his feet and glanced back to see what they had tripped upon.
Comes Lupicinus lay in the snow, clutching his ankle, panic welling in his eyes. He reached out to Quadratus, his lips flapping silently as if stalling when trying to call for help.
Avitus looked to Quadratus, then the pair looked to the cavalry haring in on the felled Roman, spears raised. With a grunt, Quadratus leapt up.
‘No!’ Avitus yelled. But Quadratus was determined, stomping back towards Lupicinus. With a frustrated growl, Avitus prised a spear from the hands of a dead recruit and hoisted it then hurled it forward with a roar. The missile punched through the lead cavalryman, who was thrown back into his fellow riders’ paths and the charge faltered for a precious instant. Quadratus heaved Lupicinus up and slung him across his broad shoulders, then hobbled for the fort gates. Avitus skirted around the centurion, loosing arrows at the reforming riders to cover the retreat. The recruits spilled onto the battlements and began roaring encouragement to the trio.
Quadratus stumbled to his knees as soon as he was inside the fort, dropping Lupicinus to the ground. ‘Get the bloody gates closed!’ he bellowed at the pale-faced and trembling recruits, twisting to see the snarling Gothic riders just strides from the entrance.
As the gates slammed shut and the locking bar clunked into place, Quadratus and Avitus issued a synchronised sigh of relief.
Then, oblivious to the capsarii rushing to surround him, bearing dressings and salve, Lupicinus looked up at Quadratus. ‘You saved me?’ the comes stammered.
Quadratus shrugged.
Avitus stepped between the two and stooped to glare at Lupicinus. ‘And I trust he can consider himself pardoned?’
‘Yes,’ Lupicinus nodded, his features milky-white with terror. ‘Yes, he can.’
Then a jagged cry rang out from outside the fort. Not the cry of a Gothic horde, but the booming voice of one man.
‘Sir,’ one of the recruits on the walls cried, ‘Iudex Fritigern requests parley.’
Lupicinus’ eyes widened and his face paled, then he shrugged off the medics and held out an arm to Quadratus. ‘Get me up to the walls, soldier!’
Avitus took the other half of the comes’ weight, and together, he and Quadratus hobbled up the steps to the battlements. There, they let Lupicinus down. The comes slapped his hands onto the battlements to balance, sending thick snow down into the ditch below.
Then the three plus the meagre garrison of the fort fell silent as they gawped out across the plain. Fritigern’s followers were now flooding across the pontoon bridge in a seemingly endless train. All up and down the river, rafts and small boats were being launched to bring over swathes more. Crowds of Goths pressed against the far riverbank, unable to force their way onto the bridge or onto any crafts. They cast frequent nervous glances over their shoulders to the north and moaned in fear at the shadows back there – then huge groups of them began throwing themselves into the raging torrents of the river. They thrashed bravely in an attempt to swim to the southern bank, but few made it more than halfway across before perishing. Already formed up to face the fort were Gothic spearmen in their thousands and cavalry numbering several thousand again. Behind this army, the Gothic women, children and elderly clustered in their tens of thousands. They brought with them emaciated herds of mules, goats and oxen, and drew carts and pulled baggage on timber frames.
The recruits around Lupicinus were quick to offer their insights. ‘Fritigern has pacified his men, sir. The riders who charged us have been disarmed,’ one said.
Lupicinus seemed to draw confidence from this information and the thick walls that separated him from the Goths. He puffed out his chest and straightened his helmet. ‘Good, good. The barbarian knows what a mistake he has made.’
‘Sir,’ Quadratus hissed beside him. ‘We must tread carefully or there will be a massacre here today. Remember, we cast the first dart on the bridge.’
‘Don’t push your luck, Centurion; leave the thinking to me,’ Lupicinus peered down his nose.
As Quadratus turned away to disguise a muted flurry of curses, Avitus noticed something in the comes’ eyes; pure terror.
Down on the plain, Fritigern had pushed through to the fore on his stallion. Grey-flecked, fiery red locks and a beard tumbled down his shoulders from under his ornate, silver, full-face helmet.
Lupicinus called out to him, his voice shrill and wavering. ‘Iudex Fritigern. By crossing the Danubius, you have committed an act of war against the Roman Empire. You will be shown no mercy by our legions.’
Fritigern removed his helmet, his locks framing deep-set, tawny-gold eyes, flat cheekbones and a narrow nose. He pointed to the handful of legionary and Gothic corpses strewn on the path to the fort from the bridge. ‘That Roman and Gothic blood was spilled is regrettable, but you must believe me; I come here not as an enemy, but as an ally of Rome. We had no choice but to hasten across the bridge, for the dark riders are less than a morning’s ride behind us!’ Fritigern waved a hand back to the far riverbank.
Lupicinus heard this and then stabbed out his tongue to dampen his lips. ‘Who?’
‘The Huns. The dark riders of the northlands, they have conquered all who have crossed their path so far; the Alani, the Neuri, the Geloni, the Agathyrsi, the Melanchaenae . . . and they almost exterminated our cousins, the Greuthingi! Now they have descended upon my lands without warning or mercy with many more warriors than I have mustered here,’ he swept a hand across the ever-swelling sea of armoured men and riders. There were at least ten thousand Gothic warriors and what looked like more than many times that number of civilians, with more still flooding across the bridge. ‘My people have suffered terribly in these last days, their families slain, their lands raped and confiscated.’
‘So state your case, Goth. What are you here for?’
Fritigern clasped a hand across his chest. ‘We come seeking shelter in Roman lands.’
Avitus and Quadratus looked to each other.
‘Have we got room for, what, a hundred thousand in here?’ Quadratus snorted under his breath.
‘We ask for grain and land to settle. In return this mighty army you see before you will guard your borders to the last. The Hun hordes who drove us here will not be able to sweep across the river like they swept across my lands, I am sure of it. Not while all Rome and all my warriors await them. And that is the key; a true alliance between our peoples and our armies. Added to this, we will comply with your emperor’s long-standing wish for my people to convert entirely to the Arian faith. What say you, Roman?’ A chill wind whipped across the snowy plain and the question hung in the air as Fritigern clutched the Chi-Rho emblem on a chain around his neck. ‘Remember that we are in truce and think well on the consequences of your answer.’
Avitus’ turned to Lupicinus, whose eyes darted, widening in growing panic. ‘We need to preserve the alliance, sir, at all costs. But there’s no way we can support these people – there’s no way they can support themselves – the whole province is on the brink of famine as it is. We have to send word south, to Constantinople . . . and east, to the emperor!’ He glanced to the imperial messenger by the fort stables.
But Lupicinus was hesitant. He turned to the two. ‘This is not your decision to make, Optio, nor is it that of your centurion. No, Fritigern has come to me, and it is up to me to manage this situation.’
Quadratus frowned. ‘Sir, we need help.’
Lupicinus raised a hand. ‘I will not call for help!’ Lupicinus snapped, his eyes wild, his lips twisted into a snarl. ‘No, the coward who calls for help is already beaten. I am no coward! I can manage this, alone!’
Avitus looked to Quadratus, the pair sharing a look of weary dread.
Lupicinus shook his head. ‘Send a rider to summon the remainder of my comitatenses from the coast – two centuries of the finest soldiers.’
‘You talk of centuries,’ Avitus uttered. ‘Sir, we need legions to deal with this.’
‘Your commander has given you an order. See that it is carried out.’
‘You’re being a fool!’ Quadratus spat.
‘Watch your tongue, Centurion,’ Lupicinus barked, and two of his retinue barged forward, hands on spatha hilts.
Avitus leapt in front of Quadratus, spreading his arms wide between the two antagonists. ‘No! We must remain calm!’
Quadratus stepped back, simmering with rage. ‘Yes, sir,’ he grunted to Lupicinus.
The sky greyed and the first flakes of a fresh snowfall began to spiral around Avitus and Quadratus as they flitted down the steps. Behind them, Lupicinus’ booming reply to Fritigern rang out, his tone haughty and self-reverent as he invited the iudex and his retinue to come to the fort gates.
Avitus leaned in towards his big friend as they walked. ‘Be wary of your words around him; he acts on whims and seems driven by pride. You were moments from having icy river water in your lungs and asp-venom in your veins!’
‘But he’s a bloody fool,’ Quadratus muttered under his breath. ‘He’s obsessed with proving he is not a coward. All we’ve worked for, all our brothers who have died over the years. That imbecile will tear it all to shreds. For what – his pride?’ He threw his arms up.
‘Then we need to intervene.’ Avitus replied in a hushed voice, eyes darting to make sure nobody else was within earshot.
‘Aye,’ Quadratus nodded, smoothing his moustache, ‘but how?’
‘We write the emperor a message, and sign it as if it came from that arsehole up there,’ Avitus nodded to the figure of Lupicinus on the battlements. Then he slipped a hand into his purse and produced the neatly broken wax seal he had lifted from the Principia floor that morning. The seal bore the imperial eagle and was ringed with the letters of Lupicinus’ name and rank. He felt a twinge of righteousness; sleight of hand and stealth were two skills from his past that he could put to good use for once.
‘Eh?’ Quadratus grunted, eyeing the piece, then nodding to the Principia. ‘You’ll be hard-pressed getting the scribe in there to forge a letter – he’s been kissing Lupicinus’ arse as if Gallus never existed.’
‘Then I’ll write it myself,’ he said.
Quadratus frowned at him.
Avitus shrugged. Men of the ranks could not write, and Avitus had never revealed this skill, burying it with the rest of his past. ‘There are things I learned, things I did, back in the West,’ he started, feeling the words tumble out like a confession, ‘that I left behind. Or that was the plan. Funny how the past just keeps coming back, isn’t it?’
Quadratus’ frown remained for a moment, then a broad, stump-toothed grin broke out across his face. ‘You sly little whoreson! Let’s do it!’
The pair ducked into the barrack block, then emerged a few moments later, Avitus bearing a rolled-up scroll of paper with the wax seal melted onto it. He stopped by a tall, dappled gelding and slapped its haunches, then called to the nervous-looking imperial messenger stood nearby, eyeing the battlements. It was Ennius, the rider who had been despatched to Gallus’ party in the forest with the order to wait on the ambassadors. ‘Oi, forget what’s happening out there, get over here.’
‘Sir?’ Ennius asked.
‘You have family in Durostorum, yes?’
‘I do, sir. My wife, my elderly father and two baby girls.’
‘And do you fear for them right now?’
Ennius gulped and eyed the battlements again. ‘I’d do anything to protect them.’
Avitus nodded. ‘Good lad. Now get fresh water and rations for a ride. A long ride. I want you to go east, to the port at Tomis. Get a berth on the fastest imperial vessel there that’s heading for the Persian front. If there isn’t one going there soon, then charter one.’ He held out the scroll. ‘This should see you right. When you’re landed again, ride until your arse bleeds and get word to Emperor Valens. The scroll holds all the detail, but tell him we need legions, lots of them.’
Ennius hesitated. ‘But, sir, I overheard Comes Lupicinus; he said he wanted a rider despatched to summon his centuries from the coast?’
Avitus gripped the rider’s shoulders. ‘To Hades with the comes – we will despatch another rider to do his bidding later, but you must ride now. Save your empire, man, and save your family!’
The rider nodded, grasped three water skins and pulled his cloak around his shoulders, then leapt onto his gelding and heeled it into a trot for the fort gates.
Avitus watched the gates creaking open, and wondered if it would be becoming to issue a prayer to Mithras for the rider. Would Mithras know of his sins of the past? Would he forgive him them should this Ennius reach the emperor in time. His thoughts churned.
Then, as the gates swung fully open, Ennius broke into a gallop. But the gates did not shut behind him. Instead, the gateway was filled by a mass of foreign riders.
Iudex Fritigern and his retinue entered the fort, their faces stony.