The plains of southern Moesia basked in early spring serenity, baking in the warmth of the sun. The land was punctuated with pine thickets and gentle green hillocks, and scented with spring blooms. On the southern horizon, on a sizeable piece of flat ground, a small farming village lay amidst a network of barley fields.
Then, from the Haemus Mountains in the north, a dust plume rose up like a storm cloud as the Goths spilled onto the plain, the land behind them left churned and ruined. Over one hundred thousand men, women and children marched as one, in a mass stretching almost a half-mile across and many miles in length. The Gothic cavalry formed the wings and rearguard of the mass movement, with the chosen archers and spearmen providing a formidable vanguard, whilst the families marched and rode their wagons in the protected centre. At the head of the Gothic march, Traianus and the legionary prisoners were harried along. They were roped together at the wrist, wearing soiled and ripped imperial tunics, their faces caked in dust and burnt from the sun, their lips cracked and bleeding and their feet blistered and swollen. Behind them, Gothic spearmen threw curses, spitting and roaring with laughter as the beleaguered prisoners walked on in silence.
Then one Goth jabbed his spear butt forward and into Traianus’ spine. A joyous Gothic roar filled the air as the magister militum crumpled to his knees, then a fresh hail of spit coated his back.
Traianus bit into his lower lip, knowing fury would do him no good now. Blood spilled from the gash to his knee where he had fallen, seeping into the earth. Just another wound to add to the collection. Ivo and Draga had seen him tortured every night, searing his flesh, twisting the nails from his fingers, salting his wounds. Pain untold. Until, at last, the information they had sought came tumbling from his lips. Now he was being kept alive as some kind of example. He gazed into the dust as the spittle rained down over him. What could he do, other than bleed out in front of his enemy? Then, as if by a divine wind, he was lifted, the rope around his wrists tightening as the men either side of him hauled him up.
Gallus and his veterans wore bitter grimaces on their faces. He looked to them, nodding firmly, eager to hide the fatigue in his limbs. Then they continued at the head of the Gothic migration. As they walked, he wondered at the hardiness of this clutch of XI Claudia legionaries; more pithy and brash than any others he had encountered, either in the border legions or even in the field armies.
But it was from the east that his last hope lay; for that was where he had sent the lone eques, moments before the Viper had captured them. Ride southeast, hug the coastline and you will find them. He glanced at the horizon, his eyes narrowing. Come on, come on, where are you? He repeated over and over in his head. Then, noticing that a Gothic spearman was watching him closely, he looked down again quickly.
Then a clopping of hooves sounded and two horsemen sidled up to ride with the Roman line. It was Ivo and Fritigern. Traianus stared at Fritigern, ignoring Ivo. The Gothic Iudex stared back, his eyes cold and distant. Traianus recalled the times when Fritigern had been more than a tentative ally. But the man’s mind had been twisted to hatred and a hunger for conquest. And all this by the hand of Draga and Ivo.
Ivo and Fritigern cantered off ahead, shielding their eyes from the sun, looking to the settlement up ahead. Then Draga cantered up to take their place. The Viper turned his glare upon Traianus, but Traianus looked away.
This creature had slipped into the Gothic ranks unnoticed, posing as one of Ivo’s retinue. His hair was tousled and the beginnings of a fawn moustache coated his top lip. The resemblance to Anzo was stark now.
Draga slid from his saddle to lead his horse by its reins and to walk alongside Traianus.
‘I watched you, you know,’ Draga hissed in his ear, ‘ever since that day when you and your men slew my father.’
Traianus stared dead ahead.
‘While I was incarcerated in my Roman guise, I watched your rise to power with interest. I heard tales of your ascension through the ranks, your victories across the Danubius and then your victories in the east,’ Draga shook his head, grinning malevolently. ‘What a bloodthirsty soldier you have been. My hatred of you and everything about your empire has grown every day; from the moment as a boy, when I watched my father slaughtered like a pig, when I pulled myself shaking and lost from the waters of the Golden Horn.’ At this, he wrenched his cloak down at the shoulder to reveal the gnarled scarring of the spatha wound, splitting the snake stigma. ‘In all that time, I have drawn every last drop of knowledge from your libraries, your great thinkers and your strategists . . . I have bled your empire like a cut of meat. Now I stand, like the pig-slayer, blade in hand, pressed against the empire’s throat.’
Traianus turned to glare at Draga. ‘You are a fool, Goth. You think I sought out blood in my time as a leader of the legions?’
‘The mass graves on Thervingi lands would suggest you did,’ Draga spat.
‘You are so blinded by hatred that you are drowning in hypocrisy!’ Traianus growled. ‘For how much blood will be spilled now – Roman and Gothic – to satiate your thirst for revenge?’
Draga’s top lip curled into a sneer. ‘Well, Traianus, you can see for yourself. You will be the first to see each of your cities and forts burn. The wretches cowering behind their walls will lose any hope in their hearts when they see the great Magister Militum Per Orientalis and his men being herded like cattle by the enemy.’
Traianus suppressed a shudder as Draga grappled him by the collar of his tunic, then pointed ahead;
‘Observe, Roman.’
Ivo and Fritigern were signalling, waving a wing of cavalry and spearmen forward. Traianus frowned, squinting at the farming village up ahead, square in the middle of a patchwork of barley fields. Around forty houses lay open and unprotected by wall or palisade, the townsfolk believing they were safe inside Roman lands. Traianus’ heart ached as he heard the tinkling of cattle bells and lowing of oxen, along with the high-pitched shrieking of children at play. The ground trembled as the detachment of Gothic cavalry cantered forward. Then they split into two halves, forming a pincer formation. When only a few hundred feet from the village, they broke into a charge.
The playful squealing of the children turned to terrified moans, cut short by the Gothic war cry and then the smash of iron. Before long, the village glowed fiery orange and the sky darkened with smoke. The legionaries bristled, growling through trembling lips, some looking on with glassy eyes, others turning away to weep. It was over all too quickly, the Gothic riders coming away laden with sacks of grain, and the spearmen herding the village cattle to join the huge Gothic flock. The village lay husk-like, silent and still apart from the crackling flames and a handful of twitching corpses. As the raiders rejoined the main Gothic column, one bloodied survivor appeared from the wreckage, crawling, reaching out a hand.
Traianus stared at the old, bald man, face lined with age, gums decorated with only a few teeth. The man froze, mouth gawping, when he saw Traianus and the legionaries bound at the head of the Gothic column. Then the man seemed to lose the will to live, the light in his eyes dimming.
‘See the look of realisation in his eyes,’ Draga hissed in Traianus’ ear from behind him. Just then, the old man slumped to the earth, a last breath rattling from his lungs. ‘He knows there is no hope. I have manipulated your empire for years, and now I turn my dagger upon its heart.’
But Traianus looked to the southeast, where the beginnings of a dust plume snaked above a rise in the land. ‘You forget, Goth,’ he spoke with a trembling breath, ‘that you can be deceived, just as you deceived others.’
Draga stalked forward, squinting at the horizon, frowning.
‘The torture you subjected me to was brutal, Goth, but I would never betray my legions! The locations I gave you were false,’ Traianus growled. ‘My trusted man, Profuturus, leads many legions to these lands. But from which direction, only I know. You think I would be so foolish as to reveal this – to anyone? You underestimate your enemy, Draga!’
At that moment, from the dust plumes behind the rise, an eagle standard pierced the horizon, a purple and gold Chi-Rho banner hanging from the crossbar, flitting in the breeze. Then, two alae of other-worldly cavalry burst into view, more than five hundred riders and beasts in each ala. They were clad head-to-toe in iron. Each rider was dipped in the saddle and bore a huge lance.
All along the line of bound Romans, one word rang out as the two packs hurtled forward, converging on the tip of the Gothic column.
‘Cataphracti!’
Draga spun back around and stabbed a finger at Traianus, then swept it along the Roman line. ‘Slay them!’ he bellowed. Then he yelled back to the Gothic cavalry, who were still unaware of the approaching Roman riders. ‘Riders! To the fore!’
Traianus twisted to see the Gothic riders looking forward in confusion. Before Draga could bellow a repeat order, he kicked out, sinking his boot into the man’s chest. The Viper was sent sprawling in the dirt. But, at once, the spearmen surged forward, blades jabbing out towards Traianus.
‘Protect your leader!’ Gallus boomed.
At once, the roped-together prisoners bunched into a circle, kicking out, swatting at the frenzy of speartips. Roman limbs were sliced off with ease, unarmoured torsos were punctured all too easily.
Ringed by his legionaries, Traianus glanced over his shoulder to the cataphracti. They were closing in, but still some distance away. He saw another legionary fall, a glistening crimson mush where the man’s jaw should have been. Then he roared, pushing forward and to the fore of the circle, kicking out with all the strength left in him.
Pavo headbutted one Gothic spearman who stumbled forward, too eager to stab his lance into the Roman circle. The Goth’s nose flattened and he fell to the ground with an animal moan. Then Pavo ducked down to wrest the weapon from the felled man, straining as the ropes binding him to his comrades grew taut.
When he stood up, he realised that Traianus had pushed out from the centre of the Roman circle to stand alongside him. He wasted no time, swiping his wrists down over the spear tip to cut his own bonds. Then he hacked through the ropes binding Traianus and Sura before passing the shaft on for the others to do likewise.
‘Pavo!’ Sura cried out beside him.
Pavo spun round and jinked to one side, just as another spear punched through the space where his face had just been. He looped his hands up and over the spear shaft and yanked it down to snap the head of the shaft across his knee. Then he grappled at the spear tip, wielding it like a crude dagger. His limbs were numb and the strength was seeping from him as he ducked and dodged the flurry of spear points, stabbing out in riposte. Beside him, Sura cried out as a blade ripped across his shoulder, pulling muscle and sinew from his flesh. Then, the legionary on Traianus’ other flank roared as a spear burst through his ribcage and into his heart. The circle shrank, and Pavo felt the wet gore and the grinding bones of slain comrades under his feet.
Death seemed a certainty, when, suddenly, Traianus gripped his wrist and that of the legionary on his other side. ‘Ready yourselves!’
Pavo glanced this way and that; the Goths were dropping their spears and turning tail, pushing and scrambling back into their own ranks. Then a foreign, ululating battle cry pierced the air.
He spun to see the two groups of cataphracti, just as they smashed into the backs and flanks of the foremost Gothic spearmen, pincering the head of the enemy column. Clouds of crimson vapour burst into the air as bodies were shattered under a flurry of hooves or ripped asunder and lifted from the ground, pierced on those terrible lances. While the front of the Gothic column was shredded, the rest of the Gothic army was too slow to react. Their cavalry foundered as they tried to organise their wings, man and beast stumbling into one another. Meanwhile, the spearmen were pressed back, ranks toppling upon ranks.
Pavo roared out in encouragement as he watched the dark-skinned and iron clad riders plough through the Gothic ranks, lancing spearmen, trampling them underfoot or sending them hurtling through the air. Then, in the gap rent by the riders, he saw something far behind the Gothic front line; a rabble of people, roped together at the wrist. Roman citizens. Then he saw a flash of tumbling amber hair.
Felicia? No!
He was almost thrown from his feet as a clutch of the riders swooped past Traianus, scooping the magister militum up and onto the saddle. All around him, the rest of the legionaries were plucked from where they were stood, many crying out in shock and euphoria, hurling insults back at the Gothic column.
Pavo blinked through the dust cloud, straining to see Felicia again. But when the dust cleared, the Gothic mass had closed up and he could see nothing of her or the Roman prisoners.
‘Come on!’ a gruff voice roared beside him. It was Centurion Zosimus, beckoning the last few legionaries over to the onrushing cataphracti. The eastern riders leaned to one side on their saddles, hands outstretched.
Each man was pulled from the ground and carried to safety, until only Pavo, Zosimus and Crito remained on foot. Pavo shot a glance back across the horde; the Gothic cavalry and spearmen had now organised themselves, and were pouring forward in a counter charge. As if this wasn’t enough, a chorus of groaning bows and then twanging bowstrings rang out as the sea of chosen archers loosed a cloud of arrows.
‘Move!’ Zosimus roared.
Pavo turned and sprinted after Zosimus, haring for the last of the cataphracti. Then, all around them, the arrow hail hammered down. It punched into the earth and danced off the shell-like backs of the cataphracti, but plunged into the unarmoured flesh of some of the rescued Romans, whose bodies slipped from the saddles and under the hooves of the riders behind. Then, behind Pavo, Crito cried out; Pavo turned to see the veteran clutching his ribs, pierced with an arrow. Strides away, the whole Gothic horde rushed for him like wolves to a stricken deer.
‘You go first!’ Pavo yelled to Zosimus, darting back to the veteran.
Zosimus turned, then scowled. ‘Leave him – he’s done for!’ the big Thracian roared, then he growled like a bear on seeing Pavo scoop an arm around Crito’s back to hoist the veteran to standing. ‘Oh for f . . . ’ The big Thracian ran back to grab the veteran’s other shoulder. Together they hobbled forward, the arrow hail zipping past their ears and a thousand Gothic blades at their backs.
Crito glanced at Pavo. The veteran’s face was greying, the light in his deep-set eyes dimming. ‘You’re a bloody fool . . . ’ he rasped, ‘ . . . but I’d march into Hades with you . . . sir!’
Pavo glanced over their shoulder at their pursuers, only paces behind. They would never make it, he realised. ‘Save it for later, soldier!’
Zosimus wrenched Crito onwards. ‘Move!’
Crito cackled, blood rasping in his lungs. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, shrugging free of Zosimus and Pavo. ‘Now run, save yourselves!’ With that he turned, took up the sword of a fallen cataphractus, and spun to face the Gothic line.
‘No!’ Pavo roared as Crito lunged into the Gothic front. The Gothic charge slowed for but a heartbeat as a flurry of blades scythed down on the lone legionary. Then the veteran disappeared under the stampede of Goths.
‘He’s gone! Now get your arse on horseback!’ Zosimus bawled, bundling Pavo forward as arrows zipped down all around him and a spear scythed past his ear. Then the big Thracian leapt up onto the saddle of the next to last cavalryman.
Pavo scrambled forward to get to the last cataphractus as longswords swiped at his back, tearing his tunic and scoring his flesh. The Roman rider beckoned him, eyes wide and darting back to the onrushing Goths. He clasped the rider’s forearm and swung up and onto the saddle, and at once they sped away from the wall of Gothic blades. As the wind rushed over them, Pavo twisted round on the saddle to scour the rear of the Gothic horde, desperate to sight the rabble of Roman prisoners again. But a huge dust plume covered everything behind the first few ranks.
I will find you, Felicia.
Then an arrow zipped past his cheek and, with a sickening thud, punched through a sliver of the rider’s neck, momentarily exposed between the iron aventail and the scale vest. Blood pumped from the wound as one half of the iron creature slid to the ground. Pavo shuddered, momentarily frozen. The he slid forward on the saddle, grappling at the reins to control the panicked mount. As he did so, a rasping voice called out behind him, rising over the tumult of the furious Goths.
‘Your empire will soon be in ashes, Legionary!’
Pavo turned back in the saddle, his heart pounding. Draga stood at the front of the horde, a bow in his hands.
‘I watched my father bleed his last at the hands of Rome’s legions. And now you will never know the truth about your father, Roman . . . never! Tarquitius is dead and the truth died with him!’
Pavo gritted his teeth, then hefted the splintered head of the spear shaft in his hand and hurled it back over his shoulder with all the strength he could muster. The makeshift missile sclaffed from Draga’s face, then ploughed into the dust.
Draga touched a hand to his bloodied cheek, eyes burning.
‘And you will not see another spring,’ Pavo roared.
With that, Pavo turned and lay flat in the saddle. His knuckles trembled, white on the reins as he rode, and the wind whipped at his face.