Gordon Doherty - Viper of the North

Draga’s twisted half-grin faded. ‘Do not presume to know what I have seen, legionary. Some of the darkest deeds I have ever witnessed have taken place in the fine climes of the senate building in Constantinople, in the cool and luxurious upper tiers of the Hippodrome,’ he leant forward and hissed, ‘in the Imperial Palace itself!’

‘And has that not swayed you from perpetrating such acts?’

Draga burst into a chilling laughter. ‘It has not swayed me, legionary, it has inspired me.’ The man’s eyes sparkled like a roaring fire under the shadows of his hood.

Pavo flinched at this, then squared his shoulders once more, all the while conscious of the shrinking band of legionaries amidst the Gothic noose, only paces away. Then one eagle was plucked from the crowd, a Goth holding aloft the standard and the severed head of a legionary. Pavo glanced at this spectacle for just a moment, then realised what a grave mistake he had made.

Like a viper uncoiling to strike its victim, Draga leapt for him with a flurry of sword hacks.

Pavo fell back, troubled by the man’s deft handling of the weapon. He could find time only to parry. Then his heel caught in a discarded conical helmet, and he crashed onto his back. In a flash, Draga had his swordpoint at Pavo’s jugular.

Draga let a serrated laugh escape his lips as he pressed the blade, the edge pricking Pavo’s skin. ‘Now send a prayer to Mithras, legionary, and perhaps you will meet your father in Hades!’

Pavo felt the phalera burning on his chest. Something in his heart roared, and he clawed at the blood-soaked earth by his sides as he waited on the death blow. Then words of advice echoed in his thoughts. But not those of the lost ambassador, Salvian. Instead, they were the words of Brutus — that grim-faced bull of a centurion who had welcomed him into legionary life with a regime of sadistic training torture. Now long dead, like so many others.

Don’t be a hero. . be a dirty bugger!

As the longsword split through the skin of his neck, Pavo cupped a handful of earth and gore and hurled it at Draga’s eyes. Draga staggered, blinded momentarily, the longsword retracting at the last.

Pavo pounced on the moment of respite, rising and hoisting his sword. He hacked forward, smashing at every one of Draga’s parries with a newfound vigour. ‘You call me legionary,’ he cried, ‘but you should know that I am Pavo of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis! ’

Draga, startled, parried. Their swords smashed together again and again until the Viper ducked left and jabbed his longsword towards Pavo’s gut. Pavo jinked and swiped at the thrust, cleaving Draga’s sword hand clean off with a dull clunk of shearing bone.

With a roar, the Viper fell to his knees, biting into his bottom lip until blood spilled down his chin. Then he bowed his head and his chest shuddered, the green cloak rippling in a sudden breeze.

Pavo held his swordpoint to Draga’s chest, panting.

‘You can finish me, legionary,’ Draga rasped, squinting up at Pavo, ‘but my vision is already a reality.’

Pavo glanced over to the dying embers of the Roman last stand. Another two eagles were being passed back over the Gothic heads, along with the bloodied corpse of one of the comitatenses tribuni.

‘And know that with my death,’ Draga continued, ‘the truth about your father will evaporate also!’

Pavo’s stare shot back to Draga. His eyes bulged, his heart thundered. ‘You know Tarquitius’ secret?’

Draga nodded with a weak half-grin. His hood had fallen to his shoulders and he wore that open and earnest expression; for all the world he once again looked like the man Pavo had known as Salvian. ‘He talked incessantly when I held him prisoner in my tent. Serve yourself, Pavo. Drop your weapon and I will tell you everything in return.’

Pavo’s thoughts swirled in conflict. To live and learn the truth, or to die here with his brothers, honour intact. He clutched the phalera as a nauseous panic swam over him. Then, like a splash of ice-cold streamwater over his heart, Pavo realised what he had to do.

He dropped his spatha.

‘Good. . good. You have made a wise choice, lad,’ Draga purred, rising from his knees.

Pavo stared past Draga’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Draga’s face contorted into a demonic grimace; he whipped a dagger from his boot with his good hand, then sprung up, thrusting the blade for Pavo’s throat.

At once, Pavo’s eyes snapped round to fix on Draga’s. He swerved the cut and wrapped one arm around Draga’s neck. With the other hand he grappled at his assailant’s wrist, prising the blade from his grip and then turning it to rest the point upon Draga’s breastbone.

‘I knew in my soul that your blood ran black,’ Pavo panted, ‘but I had to let you prove it once more, to banish the doubts. Your army may be on the cusp of victory today, but your black heart will no longer lead them.’ Pavo’s expression grew cold, and he pushed the dagger into Draga’s chest. The man stared at him, those sharp green eyes sparkling, the manic half-grin defiant as the blade pierced his breastbone.

Then Pavo rammed the blade in to the hilt.

Hot blood washed over his knuckles as he watched Draga’s eyes dimming at last. With that, the body slumped to the ground.

The Viper was dead.

Pavo turned to see one eagle left in the middle of the Gothic swell. The ruby-red bull of the XI Claudia. Pride and sorrow rippled across his skin as he readied to rush for the fray, to die with his brothers.

He picked up a spear and a spatha and ran, screaming the last from his lungs, tears staining his cheeks.

Then he stopped.

They all stopped.

The air was filled with the cry of buccinas. Not just a few. Hundreds.

Pavo stared to the west. There, the foothills and the great mountain range behind shimmered in the dusky orange. Then, from the tips of the hills, twelve silver eagles soared into view, part-silhouetted by the setting sun. Under them fluttered twelve legionary banners. Pavo stood, eyes fixed on the unfamiliar emblems; dragons, wolves and bears. ‘It cannot be,’ he whispered, ‘the western legions?’

But again, the buccinas cried out. And now an iron wall appeared below the eagles; some fifteen thousand legionaries, and two ala of one thousand equites on fine and fresh mounts.

At this, the Gothic swell was instantly dwarfed. Their victorious battle cries of moments ago turned to wails of despair, and even Fritigern seemed stunned into silence. But as the western legions marched forward, the Gothic Iudex was sparked into action, roaring at his men to retreat, urging them to break northwards for the hills.

As the last light of day faded, the Goths fled, leaving behind a bloodied, battered, gasping group of men. Some would call them legionaries. Pavo knew them as brothers. Sura returned his knowing stare, and beside him were Gallus, Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix. The five, together with a handful of legionaries, spathas shaking in their grips, formed a tight circle around the XI Claudia standard and Traianus.

Pavo glanced down to see Draga’s empty eyes fixed in a dead stare at the sight.

Then he turned to the setting sun and felt its warmth on his skin.

‘Column, halt!’ Traianus bellowed as the noon sun baked the countryside of central Thracia. Then he nodded to the nearby stream. ‘Fall out, slake your thirst!’

Traianus watched as Comes Richomeres and his unruffled western legions calmly took to their rations. Not for the first time since waking this morning, he whispered a word of thanks into the ether for his foresight in summoning the western legions. Despite the cynicism of the officials in the capital, it was the first thing he had done upon reaching Constantinople from Antioch; they’ll never come, some said, they care more for the Frankish foederati than for their eastern brothers, others had sneered. Easy words for overfed togas who did not have to venture outside the fine walls of the capital , he mused wryly.