Gordon Doherty - The Scourge of Thracia

‘Die, old man,’ the reiks roared. ‘My speartip grows cold without your head to adorn it!’

Geridus’ reply came as a wheeze and Pavo saw that the Comes was on the brink. Gallus’ words once again streaked through his mind at that moment in a blaze of fury.

Face the past, face the nightmares. Strike them down!

He lunged through the last few strides towards the pair, then leapt, bringing his spatha up and then chopping it down on Farnobius’ shoulder. The strike tore the reiks’ mail shirt and gouged at his flesh. He swung round with an animal roar, eyes set on Pavo. With Geridus floored and gasping for breath and every Claudian comrade locked in a desperate battle around him, Pavo realised he was alone.

‘ You! ’ Farnobius hissed, his hand momentarily flicking up to touch his broken nose. ‘You will die on this cursed pass, Roman,’ the reiks snarled, then lunged forward. The wound was bleeding only lightly and the reiks was no slower or weaker for it, Pavo realised, as the axe swept out at neck height. He bent back, the blade skimming the collar of his mail vest. He tried to stab out at Farnobius’ flank in the moment of the reiks’ follow through, but the colossus was too fast, parrying like lightning. ‘You are destined to die on this blade,’ Farnobius taunted him.

Pavo’s top lip tremored and he leapt forward with a roar, crashing his spatha down at the reiks once, twice and again. The giant staggered back, laughing partly in shock, touching a hand to the red streak across his chest, under the new tear in the mail there. ‘That is the second time you have bloodied me today, boy, and the last.’

He feinted to rush for Pavo’s left, then, belying his size, switched to the right, bringing his axe round for Pavo’s ribs. Pavo could only throw himself forward to avoid the blow. He rolled through the snow, then righted himself, twisting and seeing — for a precious instant — that Farnobius’ guard was down. He brought his spatha round with what strength he had left, then felt the dull clang of the flat smashing against the reiks’ temple. The giant staggered, a confident grin appearing then fading. Then he toppled onto his back, his eyes rolling in his head. Pavo hurried to stand over him, resting the tip of his spatha on Farnobius’ throat. Farnobius blinked, then realised his situation. He shot a glance to the nearest Gothic riders, and Pavo looked with him: two nobles, by the looks of it.

‘Egil, Humbert?’ Farnobius roared. But they offered only stony glances then turned away and fought elsewhere. At this, the reiks cupped his fingers over his ears and shrieked, as if trying to block out some tormenting voice in his head.

‘Do it, then,’ Farnobius said, turning his gaze back to Pavo. ‘At least my death will come in victory, for my riders have all but overrun this pass. Why do you hesitate?’ he spat, the skin of his neck growing taut against the blade.

Pavo felt a stinging hatred in his chest. ‘Do you even remember her?’

‘Her?’

‘Felicia. She would have been my wife. She would have borne my children. You cut her down like a butcher, at the Great Northern Camp.’

Farnobius’ face wrinkled in confusion, then a light in his eyes told Pavo he had remembered. ‘At the River Tonsus when you broke my nose? The girl with the amber hair? I remember. I was at her tent. I was the first of my people to reach there.’ Then the giant’s face wrinkled in confusion. ‘She was dead already, Roman.’

Pavo blinked. ‘What?’

‘I would have enjoyed taking her head, yes, but when I came to her she and the others with her were already dead. They lay there, throats slit. I assumed they had chosen to end their own pitiful lives. But no, those wounds had been inflicted by another.’

Pavo shook his head. ‘No. . no! ’ He staggered back, the spatha trembling. All around him, the weight and strength of the Gothic horsemen was telling, and legionaries were falling in sprays of blood.

He barely noticed Farnobius rising, eyes trained on Pavo, hand reaching out for the axe.

Felicia? Pavo mouthed. How can I avenge you now?

Farnobius stalked towards Pavo, lifting his axe.

Just then, the storm winds faded to nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was as if they were paying respect to the legionaries on the cusp of death. The snow fell gently, drifting in the sudden hush. Suddenly, Farnobius froze and looked to the west. Pavo did too. It was as if both had sensed the odd crackle in the air that comes before a lightning storm.

Then came the thunder.

A din like a rolling deluge, pouring from the west. Further up the western end of the pass the greyness swam and swished then spat forth a fury of shadows. Horsemen. A hundred. A thousand. More than twice that number. They poured from the west like demons, rushing for the skirmish. Pavo saw their long, flowing blonde locks, their fair skin and heard their jagged war cries. His spirit all but guttered and died at that moment. There was no point in running.

The Goths and legionaries all around halted in their combat stances like Farnobius, looking to the onrushing riders in puzzlement.

Pavo looked to Geridus. ‘This is no wile of mine, lad,’ the old Comes panted.

‘Gothic cavalry?’ Quadratus panted nearby.

It was Geridus’ hoarse cry that answered. ‘No. . the Sarmatian riders.’

Pavo heard the words and tried to understand’ Allies? After so long alone at this wretched pass? They wore bronze scale vests, tall pointed helms and they carried long, weighty lances but no shields. He saw the stony determination on their faces, their lances trained on the melee. Then he braced as they ploughed into the fray like a harvester’s sickle, ripping man and horse to pieces in puffing clouds of crimson. Their weapons found only Gothic flesh, and Pavo and Farnobius shared one last glance. The giant reiks’ head twitched and he mouthed his last words into the ether to some invisible other. Forgive me, Vitheric. A heartbeat later, the giant reiks was ripped from view, trampled under a fury of hooves. Flesh, blood and bone were cast up in all directions.

Pavo gazed absently into the mizzle of red that filled the air around him as the Sarmatians ended the gruelling conflict, wheeling and cutting around him. When the red mist faded, he heard cries of joy from the shattered men of the XI Claudia. Cornix fell to his knees, shaking, muttering a prayer over and over. Others laughed hysterically before one of them stopped and crumpled to the ground, cradling his knees to his chest, shaking and then sobbing. One retched and vomited. He saw Libo shower a group of surrendered Goths with a volley of curses, Rectus holding him back from adding to the verbal assault with a physical one. He looked to Geridus, Zosimus and Quadratus then finally Sura, each man plastered with crimson gore. Like him, none of these men showed the slightest hint of emotion. The soldier’s skin was thick, after all these years. He closed his eyes and fought back the tears.

The storm had left the valley by late afternoon. It had the good grace to blanket the countless corpses in white before it left. Pavo had staggered up to the spur, eyed the tumbled remains of the fort, then helped gather the bodies of Roman and Goth alike. Exhausted, he then sat cross-legged at the edge of the plateau, looking up at the sapphire sky and the black band in the east that heralded the coming clear winter night, bringing with it a scattering of stars. Down below, the few hundred Goths who had been taken prisoner sat on the snow, hands bound, watched by Trupo, Cornix and the remainder of his century together with a band of the fierce Sarmatian riders.

He noticed Zosimus and Quadratus near them, talking with the Sarmatian leader — a fellow with a thick, blonde beard and nearly snow-white skin. Their breaths puffed in the air as they spoke, and Pavo wondered what they might have to say. The Sarmatians had long been in a treaty of alliance with the empire, yet they had come only after so many had died. Of the three legionary centuries who had held the pass, just over half remained. Herenus and his slingers had suffered only a handful of casualties, but the sagittarii numbered just eleven now. Yet the dead here was but a speck compared to the loss suffered across Thracia in the wake of Farnobius’ rampage.