Fritigern heeled his stallion again, and at last he burst clear of the curtain of fog to crest the foothill, bathed in dawn sunlight. He slowed his mount, stroking its mane as he surveyed the land; the surrounding hilltops and the Haemus Mountains looked like islands in the sea of fog that clung to the lowland. He sucked in the air, crisp and clear. Then he lifted the iron helmet from his head and closed his eyes, welcoming the warmth of the sun on his skin.
For the briefest of moments, he tried to imagine that he was alone up here. His thoughts had been jabbering and jumbled in these last weeks. It felt as though the hand of Wodin had swept him and his people through the recent happenings, and the pressure of being a leader had never felt greater. Then, from behind him, the clanking of iron and thundering of footsteps and hooves in their thousands jolted him back to this reality. He twisted in the direction from which he had come to see the fog swirl and part.
‘Iudex, you must not ride ahead like that,’ Ivo said.
The scarred warrior rode at the head of a wing of one thousand cavalrymen. These riders, like the rest of his people, looked well-fed and refreshed, their armour polished and clean, their hair washed and groomed, their weapons sharp, their minds focused. It was the first time his people had looked healthy in months, ever since the Huns had driven them from their homelands. Perhaps, he thought, he should be grateful for this blessing. For now his destiny was clear; just like the parting fog, all doubt was gone. The empire had to be punished.
Ivo sidled up to him. His loyal aide wore his grey locks braided into tails and wore an old, bronzed helmet that covered his face to his cheeks. Fritigern cast his mind back to that day, twenty years ago, when they had first met. It had been on a journey home from a parley with a Thervingi rival. He had been riding with his twenty finest horsemen, men whom he trusted like brothers to fight by his side to the last. And they had. The masked brigands who sprung his column from the trees were like starved wolves, pulling his riders from their mounts. His men fought with all they had, slaying any who came for their Iudex, but there were too many of them. Then, when the last of his men was felled, the twelve surviving brigands had turned to him, bloodied blades readied to strike him down. It was then that the lone warrior had appeared at the end of the track. All eyes had turned to the one-eyed giant. Then the warrior had stalked forward with the confidence of a lion, spinning a longsword in his grip as if it was a twig. At this, the brigands hesitated. Then a few to the rear broke and ran for the trees. The giant smashed his sword into that of the lead brigand, shearing the blade. At this, the rest of the bandits had turned and fled. That moment had forged a friendship that had grown stronger with every day since.
Fritigern’s thoughts came back to the present and he looked to his most loyal aide once more.
Ivo’s milky eye and the good one peered from the eye-slits, examining the hills ahead.
Fritigern followed Ivo’s gaze. ‘You are certain that they will come, Ivo?’
‘Absolutely,’ Ivo nodded. ‘Any past disputes pale in comparison to what lies before their people and yours now, Iudex. It is time for the tribes to unite.’
Fritigern nodded, gazing around the hilltop; so this was the place and the time for it to happen. Then he frowned, remembering the tales his mother used to tell him; tales of the one they called the Viper, the Iudex who would unite the tribes and bring bloody war to all. He looked up to the sky; yet it is me who brings about this brutal reality.
A needling voice in the back of his mind would not fall silent. Like a trapped man pleading from the bottom of a well, calling out for him to open his eyes, to see what was going on around him. He remembered the claims of Tribunus Gallus and his gaze drifted to Ivo’s leather arm greaves. What if . . . no! He shook his head clear of the doubts, remembering the number of times this man had bled for him. A firm voice and a true leader was needed now.
Then Ivo grasped his shoulder.
Startled, Fritigern looked to his aide.
‘It is time,’ Ivo said, nodding to the far side of the hilltop.
There, the mist swirled and parted and another army marched into view. Thousands of Gothic spearmen and hundreds of cavalry. These were the Greuthingi Goths of northern Gutthiuda. Leading them were Alatheus and Saphrax, the dominant Iudexes of their people.
Alatheus heeled his mount forward.
‘Noble Fritigern,’ he clasped a hand to his heart, ‘Having spent so many weeks fleeing from the demon horsemen from the steppes, it warms me to see you and your kin.’
Fritigern nodded, placing his fist over his heart in reply. ‘Aye,’ he replied tentatively, thinking of their past quarrels and bloody wars. ‘Yet it pains me that it has taken a catastrophe like this to bring us together.’
Alatheus nodded solemnly. ‘Know that my men will shed blood for your cause. Over the coming weeks, more of my kin will join us and swell the ranks. But it is not just kin from the north that flock to join you . . . ’ he held out one hand to the curtain of mist.
Fritigern frowned as the mist swirled again. Then, like an iron serpent, a column of Roman legionaries marched forth onto the hilltop. A century became two, then they were a cohort, then nearly a thousand.
At this, Fritigern’s men rippled to arms, panicked shouts splitting the air.
‘At ease,’ Alatheus bawled, raising both hands. ‘They are with us. Look! They wear Roman armour, but they have Gothic hearts.’
Fritigern’s men watched, still uncertain as the legionaries came closer. Then they saw it. Blonde and red locks tumbled from their intercisas and blue stigmas spiralled on their jaws.
The two centurions leading the legionary column stopped short of Fritigern. The nearest pulled off his helmet to reveal narrow, handsome features. He clasped a hand to his heart. ‘Suerdias of the northern plains, loyal to the Thervingi, sons of Allfather Wodin!’ he boomed. Then he swept a hand back over the wagons they brought with them – laden with Roman arms and armour. ‘We will fight alongside you until the last.’
As Fritigern eyed the two armies, a tense silence crackled in the air.
Then Ivo heeled his mount into a canter and halted between the three armies.
‘Feel the sun on your skins, my people!’ he roared out. ‘For today is a great day. Today we see, at long last, the unification of the tribes. Armies will flock to our cause. Iudex Fritigern will lead us to greatness!’
A murmur broke out across the ranks, some of Fritigern’s men started to cheer. Then all eyes fell upon the iudex.
Fritigern felt the weight of expectation like an anvil on his shoulders. There was no turning back now, he realised, steeling himself. He drew his longsword, held it aloft and addressed his followers;
‘We cannot allow this moment to pass us by. We stand by our common enemy’s artery. Our blades are sharp. Let us cut through it with all our combined might!’
Then Ivo punched the air. ‘Let the blood of the Romans flow under our feet like the Mother River. The time has come!’
To a man, the Goths roared like lions and the earth shook beneath them.
Pavo ducked back from the ridge, his heart pounding, his skin rippling at the tumultuous roar. Was this really happening? Had the thin air and the mist played tricks on his senses? He glanced up again, over the lip of the ridge. No, it was all real; Goths innumerable cried out in fervour as Fritigern and Ivo stood amidst the three united armies. But there was another figure, mounted and flitting between the masses of spears being punched into the air. Pavo’s skin crawled; was it the hooded, green cloaked rider from the plain? He blinked and rubbed his eyes, and the rider was gone, consumed in the sea of warriors . . . or perhaps never there in the first place? He turned away from the ridge, flushing the thoughts from his mind.
Lying flat beside him, Gallus punched a balled fist into the grass. ‘Whoresons!’
All along the line of legionaries, similar muted curses and laments rang out.
The handful – just over thirty – who had survived these last few weeks since the sack of Marcianople had tracked the Gothic column vigilantly. They had stalked along the ridges of the foothills, hidden in dells, slept in caves, melted into the forests as though they were the barbarians, waiting on the moment, the sliver of opportunity when they could get at Ivo. In all that time, hope had ebbed on an almost daily basis as they had passed burnt-out forts, razed settlements and scorched lands. Now it all appeared to be for nothing.
‘It’s over,’ Sura said, his tone that of a lost child. ‘The Goths have won.’
Pavo ran his fingers across his scalp, his dark locks curling and his beard thick after so many weeks without shaving. ‘And we didn’t even get a chance to fight them properly.’
Felix gathered the group together, then turned to Gallus. ‘We need a new strategy, sir,’ the primus pilus’ voice was steady, but his eyes urgently searched the tribunus for a response.
Gallus looked across his weary band of men. ‘No, we still have a chance. You all saw how cold Fritigern was with the Greuthingi Iudexes and the renegade legionaries; it was Ivo who bound them together and brought that cheer from their armies. The strategy still holds good. Until a viable alternative becomes apparent, we must stay honed on getting to Ivo.’
‘We need hope,’ a lone voice spoke up.
Pavo turned with the rest to the voice. It was Crito. The veteran had become withdrawn in the weeks since Marcianople, and was surely a portent of where the morale of the rest would be headed.
‘I’ll stick with the plan, to the last,’ he spoke steadily, ‘but I fear the last is not too far away. That’s what I mean, when I say we need hope. Something has to go our way.’
Pavo felt for the man, and his words seemed to resonate around the group as some heads nodded, some went down, and shoulders sagged. He turned to Gallus, but even the iron tribunus was struggling to find the words of inspiration Crito sought.
Then, the ground rumbled with the thundering of hooves, approaching fast from the misty lowlands behind them.
Instinctively, the thirty spun away from the ridge and the meeting of the Goths. They snatched their spathas from their scabbards and leapt to readiness, eyes wide as they scrutinised the misty curtain down the hill. Gallus signalled frantically but in silence for the thirty to gather together as a square.
Pavo stumbled into position on the front line, Sura pushing up beside him. The pair only had a single shield to share between them, and barely half the front presented spears. Mutterings of despair started across the Romans as they waited on the Goths to burst from the mist.
‘Been a pleasure fighting alongside you,’ Sura said.
‘Aye, likewise,’ Pavo replied.
‘Cut out the chit-chat, you couple of bum-boys,’ Zosimus cut in abruptly, ‘and get ready to fight as I taught you!’
A panicky chuckle spread across the line and then the group fell silent, and then braced as a shape burst from the fog.
‘Mithras on wine!’ Zosimus gasped, his mouth falling agape.
Pavo’s eyes bulged at the sight.
A turma of thirty Roman equites rode in a wedge on fine, muscular mounts. But the lead rider was mounted on the finest of them all as he trotted forward to examine the thirty. The man’s jaw was broad and speckled with grey stubble, his nose narrow and hooked and his skin sun-darkened. He was no renegade Goth – this man was Roman through and through.
Gallus stepped forward and saluted. ‘Manius Atius Gallus, Tribunus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis.’
‘Appius Velius Traianus, Magister Militum Per Orientalis,’ the man replied with a salute. ‘Now tell me, Gallus, what in Hades has happened here?’
The Roman cavalry turma and the straggle of legionaries spilled down a shrub-coated hillside into the dell, where a trickling stream would make a fine and secluded site for rest and refreshment.
Traianus sighed, flexing his grip on the mount’s reins, his chest tightening as he tried to take stock of the sorry state of affairs. Every town, city and fort from the Danubius to Marcianople had been razed or was braced for such an assault. The limitanei legions were in disarray and he and his cavalry had encountered ragged bands like this dotted all across the countryside. But this band was different; they were not fleeing south. It had come as no surprise to him that these thirty were led by the fastidious Tribunus Gallus. Valens had warned him of a selection of unworthy dogs who held sway in the limitanei, but had described Gallus in stark contrast as a pithy and iron-hearted man who would fight until his heart burst. Indeed, Gallus was insistent that they should stay close to the main Gothic horde, despite Traianus’ plans to withdraw to the south.
‘We cannot fall back,’ Gallus insisted again, marching ahead of his straggle of soldiers to draw level with Traianus’ mount. ‘We are on the cusp of bringing down the man who has orchestrated all of this!’
Traianus’ eyes narrowed at this. The chatter since they had stumbled across Gallus and his men that morning had been swift and chaotic, but he had heard a name mentioned several times now.
And he longed for it not to be true.
‘This Ivo . . . you say he was behind the rebel uprisings in Fritigern’s lands, and now he rides at the head of the united Gothic army?’
Gallus nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
A cold shiver danced up Traianus’ spine. It is him, it has to be. ‘Describe him to me.’
‘Three hoops in his ear, a nose like an arrowhead and . . . ’ Gallus started, then touched one hand to his eye.
‘. . . one ruined eye, milky and scarred?’ Traianus finished for him.
Gallus’ eyes widened. ‘Then you know of him?’
Traianus nodded. ‘I do. I once crossed swords with the man.’
Gallus frowned. ‘If you know of Ivo, you must surely know of the Viper?’
Traianus nodded. ‘Iudex Anzo was a callous whoreson, Tribunus. Yes, he lived for this to happen: to see the tribes united and the empire cowering before them.’
Gallus lowered his voice to barely a whisper; ‘You speak of him in the past tense, sir? I have heard much rumour and legend about his death, long ago. But something needles at my thoughts. What if . . . ’
Traianus shook his head. ‘I saw Iudex Anzo die on a wharf in Constantinople, Tribunus; an arrow ripped out his throat and he bled his last on the flagstones, twenty-five years ago. And on that day, Ivo swore to see out his slain master’s destiny.’
Gallus’ gaze fell to the ground, eyes darting as if to make sense of it all.
Traianus leaned in closer as the legionaries began setting up a perimeter around the dell for their camp. ‘Do not dwell on whatever smoke and myth Ivo has blown up to cover his tracks. Know only this; a relief column is on the way.’
Gallus looked back, eyes burning, eager.
‘Three full legions of comitatenses and one of limitanei are on their way to these foothills along with two alae of cavalry. They move northwards as we speak. Used wisely, they could tip the balance. Your determination to hunt down Ivo is admirable, Tribunus. But tomorrow, at dawn, we must withdraw to rendezvous with our army.’
‘And these men you see here today will fight at their head, sir,’ Gallus replied evenly, hiding his frustration well. With that, the tribunus turned and strode around the dell, barking orders at his legionaries.
Traianus allowed himself a wry smile at this iron-skinned soldier’s fortitude. Then he looked to the horizon again. His mind replayed those last moments of the wharf on that blood-soaked summer day, all those years ago. Gallus’ words of doubt prickled at his thoughts.
Could a shade come back to life, he wondered?