Gordon Doherty - Viper of the North

‘More’s the better!’ Centurion Zosimus grumbled by his side.

Pavo pulled a wry grin at this, then glanced over his shoulder at his century and then across the Roman lines that stretched out to his right.

The rear of the Roman army was finally settling into formation. Now, five legions — nearly eight thousand men — were readied; the limitanei wore iron-finned intercisa helms and mail shirts over white tunics, and they grappled spears and the ever-trusty spathas. Each of them gripped painted oval shields with three plumbatae clipped onto the inside. The comitatenses were even more finely armoured, wearing glistening scale vests, and additionally equipped with lancea javelins. Each man’s skin was bathed in sweat, fingers flexing on weapons. Some glared at their enemy, chests heaving in fear and battle-lust. Others stood, silent, eyes closed in prayer, trying to block out the incessant Gothic chanting and rapping of weapons on shields.

The legions’ flanks were protected by the Roman cavalry; two compact wedges of cataphractii and two cobbled-together alae of equites and equites sagitarii. Barely two thousand all-told. At the head of the Roman line was a thin screen of skirmishers: a cohort of sagittarii foot archers who wore ruby cloaks, mail shirts over their tunics and helmets with slim iron nose-guards; a few hundred funditores who were already strapping up their wrists and stretching their limbs and their slings; and a cohort of auxilliaries, clutching light javelins, swords and daggers, but unarmoured bar the few who clutched battered shields or helmets. Some eleven thousand men all told were to stand in opposition to the wall of Goths across the plain.

Two comitatenses legions — the IV Italica and the II Armeniaca — formed the Roman centre, while the II Isauria formed the prestigious right wing. Meanwhile, the limitanei of the I Adiutrix formed the inner left. And so it was left to the XI Claudia — each of the three cohorts less than half-strength, patched together with recruits and the tattered remains of the other limitanei legions that had strayed into the Roman camp — to form the far left of the Roman line. This was a position long-held as unlucky and doomed to break if the line was to come under too much pressure. Their job was to refuse the flank and prevent this eventuality at all costs.

And what a soldier to see that job through, Pavo affirmed, glancing a handful of paces to his right. There, Tribunus Gallus stood tall at the head of the XI Claudia. The legion aquilifer stood next to him in nervous silence, clutching the silver eagle standard, the ruby bull banner hanging motionless in the muggy, still air.

Pavo shuffled, rolling his head to double-check his intercisa helmet was firmly secured. Then he readjusted his mail vest, reaffirmed his grip on his shield and spear, then corrected his posture. His linen tunic was slick with sweat and still he couldn’t brush away the nagging of his full bladder. He cursed under his breath.

‘Every bloody time, eh?’ Sura grumbled, just behind him, biting his lower lip and jostling on the balls of his feet.

‘Reminds me I’m alive,’ Pavo replied over his shoulder, gruffly. ‘Long may it continue.’

‘Not too long though,’ Sura replied, squinting up at the sun, ‘or we might cook out here.’

‘The Goths need to move first if we are to have any chance,’ Pavo replied, nodding to the far end of the Roman line. ‘He’s biding his time.’

There, heading up the Roman right, Traianus was dressed in full battle armour, crested with a purple plume, mounted on an equally well-armoured stallion. He was engaged in frantic discussion with Tribunus Profuturus and the other comitatenses tribuni. Traianus seemed to be insisting that they wait, despite the growing heat and despite some of the tribuni calling for the legions to make the first strike.

Pavo heard the nervous grumblings all along the ranks behind him. Standing in full armour in the searing sun was doing little to aid morale, especially when the Goths were in full song, their ululations and guttural chanting echoing across the plain. But he also saw the Gothic advantage in numbers, and that their archers held the high ground. There would be no victory by an early attack or by brute force today. Strategy would be the key. They would have to wait. Pavo noticed the magister militum gazed to the western horizon as his tribuni appealed to him for action. His brow furrowed. Mithras tell me he has a plan!

Then, young Noster spoke out from behind him, his voice hoarse. ‘Sir, permission to down helmets and weapons and take on water?’

Centurion Zosimus twisted round at this, his incredulous expression glistening with sweat. ‘You just keep your hand on your sword hilt and your shield on your arm!’ The big Thracian shouted over the Gothic song.

But then, suddenly, the Gothic chorus stopped dead. All Roman eyes snapped forward. There, beside Fritigern, Ivo held his arms aloft, like a bird readying to soar. All Gothic heads were turned to him. Then, after revelling in the silence for a few heartbeats, the giant warrior took to rallying the Gothic army with a booming anti-Roman tirade. His every exclamation was met with a sharp, raucous cheer that shook the land, amplified by the foothills cupping their ranks and the Haemus mountains behind them. Then the grizzled warrior drew his sword and levelled it across the plain, tip pointing directly at the Roman centre. As one, the Gothic army took to battering their spears and swords on their shields, and threw forth a baritone roar that seemed neverending.

Pavo clutched the phalera through his mail vest and tried to block out the doubt that raced through his heart. But it was no use, morale was already disintegrating. The silence across the Roman lines was painful. He looked across the plain; at the centre of the Gothic line, Fritigern and Ivo were mounted at the fore. ‘Fools!’ He cried over the cacophony of the Gothic chorus, seeing the mounted Draga lurking behind the pair. ‘They don’t even know they’ve been led here, like cattle, to fight the Viper’s war.’

At this, Zosimus scowled at him. More, Gallus also turned, glaring at him. Then a sparkle appeared in the tribunus’ eyes.

With that, Gallus turned to the legion. ‘Aye, as have we,’ he boomed in response. ‘You’ve all heard the rumours about the Viper, the one man who will bring all Gutthiuda crashing down upon the empire? A master of strategy, a shade, a demon . . I’ve heard it all.’

The men of the front ranks frowned at this.

‘Well that very whoreson stands just over a plumbata’s throw across the grass.’ Gallus’ chest grew as he sucked in a breath and clutched the eagle standard from the aquilifer. ‘He’ll bleed like any man, and if we fight like the lions we are, then he’ll bleed his last today! So are we here today to lie down before his mighty army? Are we?’ Gallus shook his head briskly, a manic sparkle in his eyes. ‘I am not!’

Pavo sensed the mood change at that moment.

Gallus ripped the spatha from his scabbard and held it aloft, the standard held high in the other hand. ‘I have fought these whoresons on the plains, in the forests, in the mire and on the waves for longer than I care to remember. For what? Just to have them devour my corpse on this day, on this land, our land? I don’t think so!’ His words seemed to be piercing the Gothic chant, and the adjacent I Adiutrix and nearby IV Italica had all picked up on the rousing homily. Pavo could see heads being turned in the ranks of the II Armeniaca and II Isauria as well, with expressions of bemusement touched with hope.

Then, Gallus stabbed his spatha into the ground, and pumped the standard towards the sky.

‘Remember we are the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis , men. The name was bestowed upon us for our loyalty and determination to stand firm when all seemed lost. Fight for your brothers by your side, men; fight for your people; fight for your empire! ’