Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

Geridus offered him a dry grin as he heard from up above the victory cries of the many Goths now pouring over the fort’s southern wall. ‘If we leave this fort then it is not before time. For the walls can both stave off an attacking foe. . or destroy them.’

Pavo saw how he nodded to the juniper grove. Lightning struck across the sky and for the briefest of moments, he saw shapes within the trees: the six sagittarii that the Comes had held back. They read Frigeridus’ signal and began to drop from view, one by one, each of them leaping down into some hole the ground. ‘What the?’ He gasped. Then all that had happened in these last weeks flashed before him, the memories swirling like the blizzard, before one leapt out at him: the ghostly tink-tink of tools they had heard at night. At last he realised that all along, it had been coming from underground. Under the fort. ‘Sapping tunnels?’ he whispered. ‘You’re going to bring the walls down?’

‘I let your men patch up the stonework, but only so much,’ Geridus said. ‘The walls depend upon the wooden beams within the sapping tunnels — beams smeared with pig fat. When my men set light to them the timber will buckle. . and no mortar will keep the walls upright,’ he said, then peered into the grove. Moments later, the six men came scrambling back into view, climbing out of the sapping mine along with thick clouds of stinking smoke. ‘It is done,’ the first said as they burst from the grove and over to Geridus.

‘Then we have little time, come, ’ Geridus urged Pavo and the six archers onwards with him, down the winding tunnel that led to the pass floor. The howl of the storm and battle fell away as Pavo half-stepped, half-slid down the precarious descent of ancient stairs, only stopping when he came out into the storm again, his boots splashing through the frozen crust and icy waters of the brook in the valley floor. Here, he found the beleaguered survivors of the XI Claudia along with the slingers and archers — a few hundred men all told. Stained with smoke and blood, running nearly doubled over, some supporting one another, panting. They backed away, westwards up the pass, turning frequently and anxiously at the fort up on the spur. The fulcrum of Trajan’s Gate was overrun. The walls were packed with Gothic infantrymen and many of Farnobius’ riders, dismounted and eager for a share of the spoils. All but a band of some five hundred of his Taifali riders had remained at the foot of the scree path, looking up at the spur and the fort no doubt in envy of their comrades who danced on the tower-tops, roaring victory songs into the storm.

A heartbeat later, a chorus of shredding timber sounded and the fort shook visibly and grey dust billowed into the blizzard. The victory cries ebbed. Gothic heads twisted one way and then the other in confusion. A moment later, another chorus of bucking and the crash of crumbling stone. Now the Gothic song fell silent as huge chunks of masonry toppled from the walls. The whooshing of the storm alone filled the pass. Pavo was sure he could discern Reiks Farnobius up there on the edge of the plateau, backing away from the fort walls, sensing something was wrong.

Then, with a roar that defied the storm or any battle cry, the great grey walls rushed for the ground. Sudden screams were short-lived, and in a moment, all that remained of the fortress was a heap of rubble and a churning dark cloud of dust.

Pavo gazed at the black, swirling stain in the storm, transfixed.

‘Mithras,’ Sura whispered, falling back into the snow. ‘We have stopped them?’

The possibility almost burrowed into Pavo’s heart, almost sowed a seed of hope. Almost. Then his eyes widened as the remaining black veil of dust was whipped away by the blizzard. ‘It’s not over,’ he said with a hoarse whisper.

‘Eh?’ Zosimus grunted, squinting, his face etched with bemusement at what he had just witnessed.

‘It’s not over,’ Pavo repeated, his eyes locked on the trickle of horsemen fleeing down the scree path, coming to the pack of five hundred Taifali and Greuthingi riders there. ‘They’ve seen us. He’s seen us!’

Pavo heard the wails that broke out as he set eyes upon the form of Farnobius, coated in grey dust at the head of some five hundred riders as they wheeled away from the scree path and on at a gallop towards the XI Claudia. The giant reiks issued some animal battle cry and held his axe aloft, strong as ever.

‘Together! One more time!’ Pavo roared, he and Sura waving quivering legionaries up to stand with him.

‘Together!’ Zosimus and Quadratus echoed.

They stumbled back from the Gothic charge, forming a rudimentary line. Yet their number was nowhere near enough to block this wider section of the pass. With their flanks exposed, Pavo realised, they would not be winning this battle. But I’ll take that dog down with me, he vowed, seeing that Farnobius was coming for him — the reiks remembering him from the raid on the Gothic camp and the battle on the banks of the Tonsus. He saw the wild-eyes and clouding breath of Farnobius’ stallion, the gleaming edge of the reiks’ hoisted axe and the foul, blood-streaked grin on the cur’s face.

His fingers itched for a spear, but his spatha was all he had left. His lips longed to give the order for a plumbatae volley, but all the weighted darts were gone. He yearned to hear the whirring of slings or bows, but that moment had long since passed. Lightning tore across the heavens, casting Farnobius’ features in a demonic light and the ground shuddered violently as the Gothic charge came to within ten strides, seven, three. .

‘To the last man, brothers!’ Pavo roared as horsemen punched into the Roman line, shattering it. Legionaries were chopped down, battered back and trampled. He could only duck under Farnobius’ chopping axe blade, and his swipe in riposte to hamstring the reiks’ beast missed and the chance was gone as Farnobius ploughed on into the legionary mass.

Pavo swung round, seeing Cornix spin away from the next swipe of the axe, his face scored from jaw to forehead. Sura’s spatha was battered from his grip with the next attack and then a fellow legionary was cleaved through from shoulder to lung. The giant reiks then chopped his axe down on one sagittarius’ head — crumpling helm and skull and bringing an explosion of blood and brains from the man’s mouth. All around, blood fountained where spear met throat or longsword tore across face. Severed hands, still clutching spatha or shield, flew into the air where the bearer had been overly brave in his swing. One of Farnobius’ riders attacked Pavo next. Pavo feinted one way then leapt up to plunge his spatha up under this one’s ribs, the blade sinking deep into the man’s chest cavity. As this rider slid from the saddle, Pavo swung round to face the melee of Gothic horsemen and Roman legionaries. It was not hard to find Farnobius. The reiks had scored a trail of devastation, broken Roman bodies strewn in the reddened snow around him as he forged on through the skirmish. It was only a thick clang of iron that halted his progress. Geridus’ gem-hilted spatha had stayed Farnobius’ axe, both weapons tremoring, both men’s arms shaking. The two giants were matched in size but Farnobius had youth and health on his side, and the high ground of his saddle. But Geridus swung out of the deadlock, ducking away from the axe’s edge, grappling Farnobius’ shin and pulling him from the stallion. The giant reiks fell with a roar, the bronze winged helm rolling from his head. But he was on his feet in seconds. Pavo hurried through the melee towards the encounter as Farnobius lashed at Geridus, driving the aged Comes back with a rapid succession of blows from his axe, sparks flying from every parry of Geridus’ sword. The vigour of youth triumphed, and Geridus stumbled in a rut of packed snow, falling, bringing his sword up to block the shower of blows Farnobius rained upon him.