Gordon Doherty - Viper of the North

At that moment the wall gate clunked open and a century of fresh legionaries spilled onto the wharf, clustering around Traianus. Only the covering fire of the Gothic chosen archers kept the legionaries at bay as Ivo stumbled back into the cog, scooping up the Viper’s body on the way. With that, the Gothic warriors onboard untied the ropes and pushed the ship from the wharf side, then dipped one bank of oars in the water to pivot the vessel away from the city.

As the cog departed, the two Gothic warships slowed to flank it. The waters of the Golden Horn were otherwise dotted only with Roman merchant ships. The workmen repairing the Roman warships, docked and crewless nearby, could only cry out in futility. Thus, the three Gothic vessels retreated unopposed.

Regardless, the Roman sagittarii continued to loose arrows at the departing ship and the Gothic chosen archers onboard the cog replied in kind.

Traianus stood amid this deadly hail, transfixed on Ivo. The giant was poised at the stern, holding the Viper’s corpse in his arms. Roman arrows thudded down onto the Gothic cog, some only inches from him. But Ivo did not flinch, his good eye remaining trained on the cluster of legionaries while his ruined eye seeped blood. Then his chest heaved and he roared, his words echoing over the city walls;

‘This is only the beginning, you dogs. The day will come when the Viper will rise again. On that day, the tribes will be united. And on that day, Roman blood will flow like the Mother River!’

His words chilled Traianus’ blood. Then a silence hung in the air. He felt his limbs tremble as the battle rage subsided, and a dull nausea swam in his gut.

‘What in Hades happened here, soldier?’ A voice spoke from beside him. It was the young centurion who led the fresh legionaries. His face was pale as he scanned the carpet of gore on the wharf side.

Traianus looked him in the eye and moved his lips to speak, but found no reply forthcoming.

Twenty Four Years Later

Deep winter, 376 AD

The Roman Limes of Moesia

Durostorum’s winter morning market halted to watch as Legionary Numerius Vitellius Pavo of the XI Claudia stood to face the three troublemakers.

The slit-eyed drunk before Pavo roared and rushed forward, right hand balled into a fist, the left grasping a cup of foaming ale.

Pavo watched his assailant’s footsteps. He fought the urge to draw his spatha, then dodged back out of the man’s right hook, sticking out a foot. The man’s roar tapered into a yelp as he tripped, the contents of the ale cup showering Pavo’s face, cloak and mail vest. The man himself crashed to the frozen earth, face-first, shards of tooth spraying from his mouth.

The townsfolk watched with bated breath, eagerly eyeing Pavo and then the two sidekicks who had backed the drunk until only moments ago.

Pavo eyed the pair, stabbing a finger at the grounded drunk who moaned in agony. ‘Now I could have let him hit me,’ he panted, his breath clouding in the chill, ‘and then he would have lost the skin from his back for it. So take your chance; walk away and sleep it off!’

The two couldn’t hold Pavo’s gaze, and backed away then melted into the crowd. Then, with a groan, the grounded man pushed himself up. He held up his hands in a gesture of submission, blood streaming from his shattered array of teeth.

‘Look, there’s barely enough food to go round,’ he said, nodding to the town horreum.

Pavo kept his face stern, but the man was right; the grain store was running dangerously low and winter had yet to reach its depths.

‘So if we can’t eat our fill then we may as well drink what’s left in the ale barrels,’ the man continued, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

Pavo glanced over the man’s shoulder to the squat stone inn, distinguished by the stirring pole and vine leaves resting by the doorway. The Boar and Hollybush was the favourite haunt for the men of his legion. But today, like every other market day, it was full of inebriated locals. Worse, when he had ventured inside earlier, there was no sign of her. Felicia. His mind flitted momentarily to the last night they had shared, her warm skin against his, her sweet scent, her locks whispering over his chest.

‘Besides,’ the man’s grating tone snapped him back to the present, ‘there are hardly enough of your lot over in the fort to keep this place in check,’ the drunk slurred, then turned to trudge away.

Pavo made to fire some retort, but the drunk was right again. In the last few weeks, many Gothic settlements that had sworn loyalty to Fritigern, the dominant iudex of the Thervingi and a tentative Roman ally, had reported disturbances and rebel uprisings. Thus, numerous vexillationes had been summoned north, stripping the XI Claudia of their already understrength complement. Now, barely three hundred men including auxiliaries, recruits and Gothic foederati were housed in the fort.

As the crowd dissolved back into the daily bustle of market day, Pavo spat the traces of beer from his lips. He pulled his hands together across his face to the point of his beaky nose, then wiped them across his hazel eyes, thick brows and dark, stubbled scalp. He picked up his intercisa helmet from the ground where it had fallen, brushing the dirt from the iron fin. Then, realising his woollen trousers and the tunic he wore under his mail shirt were not quite so white anymore, he pulled his grey woollen cloak around his lean frame, wincing at the stench of the ale-soaked garment.

Footsteps rattled up beside him and his heart leapt. He spun, fists raised, then slumped in relief at the sight of his fellow legionary. ‘Sura!’ This blonde-mopped and cherub-faced lad had been Pavo’s loyal friend since the first day of enlistment. ‘Did you catch the rest of them?’

‘I caught one and kicked his balls,’ Sura gasped for breath, resting a hand on Pavo’s shoulder. ‘Nearly broke my bloody foot. The others. . they’ll think twice about starting a ruckus when I’m around. Now do me a favour — let’s head back to the fort.’

‘Aye, this place is becoming bloody treacherous!’ Pavo muttered. ‘If things carry on like this I’ll have to draw my sword on them one day.’

They walked through the flagstoned streets, past the timber arena, the domed Christian church and the squat tenements until they reached the town gates. Here, Pavo cast a foul glare at the two auxiliaries atop the thick stone gatehouse. The pair pretended not to notice, just as they had turned a blind eye to the drunk and his friends wreaking havoc at the market despite having a perfect view of the incident from the walls.

Outside the town, Pavo shivered, pulling his cloak tighter. The morning chill was stark and the air was spiced with woodsmoke. Winter had gripped the banks of the River Danubius and the cornfields lay brown and fallow, cloaked in a frost that was insensitive to the best efforts of the morning sun. To the east, about a half-mile from the south bank of the great river, the squat bulwark that was the fortress of the XI Claudia Legion stood like a titan’s gravestone. Coated in moss, sparkling with frost and framed by the distant shimmering waters of the Pontus Euxinus , this place had been his home for nearly a year. The towers of the fort were crowned with the ruby-red bull banners of this legion and the battlements were punctuated with the distinctive iron fin-topped intercisa helmets of the precious few sentries. Meanwhile, the rest of the legion trained on the plain to the northwest of the fort, and the sight of them warmed Pavo’s heart.

Then a distant moan of a Gothic war horn sounded to the north. Instinctively, he and Sura spun towards the noise. Then the pair slumped and Pavo chided himself, realising it was just another echo of the troubles going on deep in those foreign lands. They halted there for a moment, gazing north over the canopy of dark forest and the hazy outline of the distant Carpates Mountains. Gutthiuda; land of the Goths, and a cauldron of trouble for the imperial borders and the limitanei legions who manned them.