Gordon Doherty - Viper of the North

At once, the XI Claudia erupted in a roar that swept across the Roman ranks like wildfire, and then out, across the plain like the first wave of intent. The Gothic chant notably hushed at this, albeit briefly. Pavo saw Traianus look up in astonishment, then cock an eyebrow in thanks to Gallus. Then his heart bristled with pride as Gallus in turn looked to him, eyes narrowed, and gave him that ice-cold look and a hint of a nod.

But within moments, the Gothic chant grew again to match the Roman resurgence. At this, Traianus lifted his huge, silver eagle banner, and the front-line comitatenses with him roused the Roman lines into an even louder chorus. Then all the roaring was drowned out by the low wailing of Gothic war horns.

Fritigern and Ivo waved the Gothic centre forward.

In response, the Roman buccinators raised their instruments to their lips, and replied with a near-deafening chorus of higher pitched notes, the age-old song of the empire going to war.

The standards across the Roman line were raised. Zosimus braced, ready to move, then hissed to Pavo. ‘This is it! Let’s keep the lads in formation at all costs.’

Pavo nodded, gritting his teeth. Then he turned to Sura. ‘Ready?’ He roared.

‘Ready!’ Sura grimaced.

As one, the Roman legions marched forward. The sagittarii, funditores and auxiliaries ran out ahead in loose formation. They loosed stones, arrows and javelins first to test range, then to make the first kills of the day as the foremost Goths were punched back from their charge by the hail. Hundreds of the blonde warriors toppled, stones embedded in skulls, arrows tearing out throats and javelins bursting through chests. But within a few heartbeats, the Gothic chosen archers packing the banking of the foothills had found their range with which to retaliate. Arrows darkened the sky and the Roman skirmishers up ahead fell in swathes, screaming, crimson blood jetting from their arrow wounds. Only the armoured sagittarii stood firm, the bulk of the arrows dancing from their mail shirts and glancing from their helmets.

The plain before Pavo jostled as he kept pace with Zosimus, seeing one of the last of the slingers, only a few strides ahead, spin on the spot, an arrow through his eye. Then an auxilliary crumpled beside the slain slinger, three flights quivering in his chest.

‘They’re getting mauled!’ Sura cried, beside him.

‘They need to be pulled back or it’ll be a slaughter!’ Pavo yelled, darting a glance along to the standards and the buccinators.

Mercifully, a buccina cried out. The surviving skirmishers heard the series of notes and gratefully slipped back through the narrow gaps between the legionary cohorts to form up once more, out of range of the chosen archers.

It was now time for the legions to go to work.

‘We’re drawing into archer range!’ Gallus cried back over his shoulder. ‘Front ranks, ready testudo . Rear ranks — ready your bows, aim for the archers on the banking!’

As one, the XI Claudia entered the arrow storm, shields raised overhead and around the edges of each cohort. The three rearmost ranks crouched behind the cover afforded by the ranks before them and readied their bows.

Inside the testudo, the din of the missile hail drumming down on them was deafening. One arrowhead split the wooden layers of Pavo’s shield, coming to rest inches from his nose. All around him, legionaries clutched at arrows that had slipped inside the shield roof, piercing throats or tearing thighs. One young legionary screamed in frustration as he tried in vain to hold up his shield, but the arrow in his bicep forced him to drop it, then one arrow knocked his helmet from his head and a second hammered through his skull. But the testudo held and at last the hail slowed just a fraction.

Gallus pounced on this hiatus. ‘Front ranks, brace!’ He roared. ‘Rear ranks. . loose!’

Pavo and the front ranks bunched closer together, seeing that the Gothic spearmen were less than a hundred strides away. At the same time, the rear three ranks of each of the limitanei cohorts stood tall and rippled to present a canopy of taut bows, arrows straining at strings. Snatching glances to either side of his shield, Pavo saw the faces of the onrushing Goths drop.

Legionaries did not carry bows. Until now.

With a twang and then a hiss, the Roman arrow hail sailed overhead and hammered down into the chosen archers, stood high on the banking. This presented a window of opportunity for the funditores, sagitarrii and auxiliaries to push up once more. They rushed forward and loosed their missiles from behind the Roman lines, felling swathes of the nearer Gothic spearmen. Pavo issued a silent prayer of thanks to Emperor Valens for his insistence on training the border legions in archery.

As the Roman hail slowed, Gallus seized on the moment. ‘Now, ready plumbatae!’

Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix echoed the order along the cohorts of the XI Claudia, as did the tribuni and centurions of the other legions. As one, the five legionary blocks slowed to a halt within a handful of paces. Pavo unclipped one of his darts from behind his shield, then raised it in unison with those around him. He trained his sights on the snarling wall of Goths, racing for the Roman lines, now barely fifty paces away.

‘Loose!’

The dart hail streaked up from the Roman lines and then plummeted into the densely packed Gothic spearmen, smashing faces, shattering limbs, tearing through red leather cuirasses and splitting ribcages. Like a wave breaking on a craggy beach, the Gothic charge was ripped asunder; men were punched back into those following them, blood and strips of flesh thrown up like a spray.

‘And again, again! ’ Gallus roared, glancing to the Gothic chosen archers who were taking aim in retaliation.

Pavo unclipped his second dart from behind his shield and launched it. It shattered the cranium of one helmetless Goth, showering the men behind him in a grey wash. But the enemy charge faltered less this time; the second dart hail had been staggered, less accurate and lacking the punch of the first.

Only a few paces separated the two masses of infantry now. There would be no time for a third volley. He grappled his spear and dipped his brow, waiting on the order.

From the corner of his eye he could see Centurion Zosimus’ face curl into a snarl.

The big Thracian filled his lungs; ‘Brace!’

‘Pull together!’ Pavo cried out. He heard Sura echo the order, seeing his friend pull some of the raw recruits closer. ‘Stay alongside your brothers and they will fight for you!’ He roared, his voice cracking. Snarling, foaming, wild-eyed Goths returned the roar with added venom as they bounded the last few strides separating the two armies. Then he pushed his shoulders into Zosimus on his right and Sura on his left, the three locking shields in a tacit bond of brotherhood. Memories of battles past echoed through his mind as the crimson veil tinged his vision.

‘For the empire!’ Gallus bawled.

‘For the empire!’ The XI Claudia echoed in unison.

The two armies collided, and the plain reverberated with the smash of iron and the guttural cries of men. Blood sprayed up across the collision. Limbs and heads spun through the air. The first rank of Goths leapt into and over the shield wall in bloodlust and due to the sheer momentum of their charge, some landing within the first few ranks of Romans. There they wreaked havoc, spinning, scything their spears and swords around the packed legionaries before being hacked down in a spray of blood. The second rank of Goths smashed against the Roman shieldwall; some hacked down those legionaries before them, others ran straight onto legionary spears, then their bodies were raised and ripped asunder, spilling a crimson fog over the front lines before the cadavers were hurled back into the Gothic swell. But the Gothic numbers were telling, and their charge had been deadly. Legionaries all along the front ranks of the XI Claudia had simply vanished under the impact, their bodies trampled into a paste of crimson speckled with white bone.