Gordon Doherty - Viper of the North

Then he turned to the stream; in contrast to Richomeres’ men, the beleagured survivors of the Battle of the Willows had downed their burdens and now lined the sides of the stream. Almost to a man, they had dropped to their knees, cupping the cool liquid in their hands to drink and soak cracked and bleeding lips. Then they filled skins and emptied them over sun-blistered scalps, before wading in to submerge their burning and scarred bodies completely.

Traianus could not suppress a smile at this. Then his face fell when he glanced to the north, his eyes hanging on the ethereal heat haze over the Haemus Mountains. As the bathing legionaries’ cries of relief rang out, he could see only the field of bones they had left behind yesterday; a portent of what was to come.

For the Gothic Wars had begun.

Then, once again, he saw the staring, dead eyes of the demon who had brought all this into being. Draga.

The man was black-hearted to the core , he insisted again.

But once more, doubt wriggled into his mind as he remembered that warm summer day on the wharf, all those years ago. The brutal slaying of the young Draga’s father. The boy’s deathly cold stare. Then, Traianus closed his eyes, biting his lip as he remembered the tear slipping from the orphaned Gothic boy’s cheek.

Did we make him what he became?

He mulled over the things he had seen in his years; as much as he loved the empire, he was all too often ashamed of the deeds of those who acted in her name. His gaze dropped to the ground; indeed, he had many reasons to be ashamed of himself.

Then, something caught his eye; a few paces away, a tiny pocket of the survivors of the battle had stayed back from the stream. Tribunus Gallus was addressing them. He recognised the faces of those who listened to Gallus’ every word; the big Thracian centurion and the equally hulking Gaulish one bookending the little fork-bearded primus pilus of the XI Claudia. Then there were the two lads; younger, but scarred and bearing the telltale grimaces of veterans now. Then one of the lads — the one with the cropped, dark hair and the beaky nose — stepped away from his colleagues, lifting some bronze trinket from his tunic, examining it.

This lad had done his legion proud yesterday, slaying the Viper and saving Traianus from the creature’s charge. At that moment, Traianus realised he had not thanked the lad, nor any of the others who had put their lives before his. Perhaps it is time I made amends?

He walked over to the legionary, squinting as the sunlight danced off the bronze medallion. Then he saw the markings on it as he approached. His eyes widened.

‘What’s your name, soldier?’ Traianus asked, stepping towards him.

Pavo looked up, standing to attention, staring into the distance past Traianus’ shoulder. ‘Legionary. . ’ he paused, blinking, before correcting himself, ‘. . Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo, sir!’

‘At ease, soldier. You have proved your worth to me a thousand times over with your actions yesterday.’

Thankfully the lad complied, relaxing his shoulders just a little and looking Traianus in the eye.

‘That’s a legionary phalera,’ Traianus noted, ‘Legio II Parthica?’

‘Yes,’ Pavo replied, his brow wrinkling, a spark of interest in his eyes, ‘my father died fighting for them, at the seige and sack of Bezabde.’

Traianus frowned, unsure how to approach this. ‘Bezabde? Are you sure?’

Pavo’s expression remained resigned. ‘I’m certain of it,’ he nodded. ‘He perished like the rest of the legion in that clash.’

Traianus shook his head, fixing his gaze on Pavo’s. ‘I don’t want to trouble your mind, lad, but not all of the Parthica were lost in Bezabde’s fall.’

Pavo’s eyes widened.

‘In the east, in the desert salt mines, many live on to this day. . ’

High on the walls of Constantinople, Gallus closed his eyes, rested his palms on the baked battlements and let the brief, cooling breeze bathe his aching body. His wounds had been dressed and he had soaked in the tepidarium and caldarium for almost all of yesterday. This had helped to soothe the physical scars. Inside, though, the horrific death toll of the Battle of the Willows plagued his thoughts.

Gallus blinked open his eyes and looked across the shimmering domes, columns and acqueducts of the city. The streets were bustling as always, the populace eager to go about their daily duties; those who had lived their lives entirely within these walls were seemingly unaware of how close the Gothic horde had come to marching upon this great city. A hedonistic roar erupted from the Hippodrome at that moment, as if to underline his thoughts. One day, he thought, and one day soon, bigger walls would be needed to protect this place.

The Danubian borders were gone. The limitanei that remained — barely six legions, totalling less than ten thousand men — were now all stationed in the key strongholds south of the Haemus Mountains; the cities, towns and the raft of new forts that studded the southerly passes into those mountains. There they waited, their confidence shattered, on the next wave of Gothic attacks. And then there was the matter of the Huns. He shook his head, pinching the top of his nose.

‘Time will heal the gravest of wounds, Tribunus,’ Traianus spoke, emerging from the nearby gate tower.

‘I wish that were true,’ Gallus looked up as the magister militum approached. Then he closed his eyes again as the image of battle barged into his mind uninvited; the verdant plain in the morning, then the crimson plain in the evening, speckled with chunks of white bone, cleaved meat and staring, severed heads.

‘Even the greatest victories are stained with the blood of many good men, Tribunus,’ Traianus spoke solemnly, turning to face out of the city and across the countryside, along the throbbing Via Egnatia .

Gallus followed the magister militum’s gaze. Usually the great road that led all the way to Illyricum would be packed with wagons and migrants, flooding both to and from the capital to flog their wares and seek their fortunes. But today they came in one direction only; from the western horizon towards the Golden Gate, seeking shelter in the imperial capital. For while many inside the city dismissed the rumours of a Gothic invasion, those who lived outside knew differently. They had witnessed the great smoke plumes to the north, and then watched the bloodied survivors of the Battle of the Willows trudge south to be shepherded back to the capital. Panic would soon spread around this city, he realised.

Gallus shook his head. ‘We did not defeat the Goths, sir. Yes we broke them, halted their march to the south, and the Viper is dead. But his ambitions have been realised; Fritigern is still out there, in Moesia, roaming freely at the head of the largest Gothic army we have ever encountered. And the Huns will press south again when they have grazed the plains of Gutthiuda dry. The borders have fallen. I have failed. My mind cannot rest until I have righted things.’

Traianus smiled wryly at this. ‘And that is exactly the attitude I need from all of my soldiers.’

Gallus shared a moment of silence as they looked west, then he closed his eyes with a sigh.

‘Don’t let your spirits drop, Tribunus, for it is not over yet.’

Gallus turned to him. ‘Sir?’

Traianus scoured the north-western horizon. ‘Comes Richomeres will leave three legions with us before he returns to the west. Then, the remnants of the Danubian limitanei will be reformed to man the new frontiers. New soldiers will be levied from all corners of the empire. New armour and weapons will be forged by every smith in every city. We will fight this war with all we have.’