Legionary: Viper of the North (10 page)

‘Big Quadratus would defend that bridge on his own if he had to, sir,’ Felix offered, nodding to the etching in the ground.

Gallus gave his primus pilus a wry gaze. ‘Aye, he would. Precious few of his like left in the legion, Felix.’

Felix sat next to him. ‘And don’t forget Avitus; he’d be fighting by Quadratus’ side till the last.’

Gallus nodded. ‘But those two aside, we’re down to men with little over a year’s soldiering experience.’

‘And there are only a few of them,’ Felix said. ‘Pavo has potential. He’s a fine fighter.’

‘Fighters I’ll take, any day of the week, but its leaders we need, Felix.’

Felix nodded. ‘Then Pavo will take the route every other legionary has; he’ll die a fighter or he’ll emerge as a leader.’

Gallus almost grinned at this.

‘And what about Sura,’ Felix asked. ‘He’s a slippery bugger. Got an eye for a plan, that one.’

Then a gruff voice butted in. It was Zosimus, licking the last of the porridge from his bowl. ‘Sura? You’ve got to be kidding. That lad’s not all there,’ he tapped a finger to his temple, ‘bloody mental, he is!’ With that, the big Thracian sucked a mouthful of soured wine from his skin and emitted a belch that scattered the birds from the nearby spruce thicket. Then, with a chuckle, he wandered off to berate his legionaries.

‘And then there’s Zosimus . . . ’ Felix sighed, grinning at Gallus. ‘Sir?’

But Gallus’ attention was elsewhere; the sentries by the gateposts were calling down for the gates to be opened. He stood and walked towards the main gate. A rider entered then dismounted and stumbled through the eating legionaries. He came to Gallus, panting, then gulped a breath in and saluted.

‘Quintus Livius Ennius, of the
Cursus Publicus
. I bring a message for Tribunus Gallus from,’ he took in more air and held out the scroll in a trembling grasp, ‘Comes Lupicinus of the XI Claudia.’

At this, the seated legionaries issued a harmonised groan.

Gallus did not react, other than to raise one eyebrow. ‘By Mithras, Ennius, that is a double blow. Comes Lupicinus is bad enough, but Comes Lupicinus
of the XI Claudia?
’ He took the scroll and snapped the wax seal. Unfurling it, he noticed all eyes were upon him.

‘Get this lad some porridge, then break camp and be ready to march before the sun’s fully up!’ He barked. The men of the vexillatio slunk away to begin disassembling the tents.

Gallus’ eyes then darted across the scrawl on the paper.

. . .
the parley with Athanaric will take place imminently and takes priority over all activity in Fritigern’s lands. Proceed to Wodinscomba, then wait. An ambassadorial party and a legionary escort have been despatched to that location to meet you
 
there
 
. . .

Gallus frowned; the hollow at Wodinscomba demarcated the end of Fritigern’s territory and the start of Athanaric’s, and was certainly not a place any Roman would want to linger. He looked up at Ennius, brow furrowed. ‘When was this order given?’

‘Three days ago, sir,’ Ennius panted through blue lips and a mouthful of porridge.

‘And the escort?’ Gallus frowned.

Ennius shook his head. ‘A vexillatio levied from the XI Claudia, sir.’

Gallus punched a fist into his palm. ‘Mithras!’ He spat. So another vexillatio had been gouged from the already husk-like legion. As a soldier, this concerned him. As a man, it felt as though his home was being looted in his absence, and it irked him to think of Lupicinus assuming command of the place so readily.

Ennius looked momentarily startled.

‘At ease, rider, my ire is not directed at you,’ Gallus said. He gazed southeast to the dark forest, issuing a prayer to Mithras for the vexillatio that was to march from the safety of the empire and into this gods-forsaken land.

Chapter 4

The marching camp was enshrouded in three layers; darkness, freezing fog and then thick forest. Sitting on a log in the centre of the small enclosure, Senator Tarquitius hogged one side of the newly kindled fire. He watched as the legionaries put the finishing touches to the camp, staking their tents to the ground and battering the palisade perimeter into place.

He sighed, his belly groaning as he looked again to his prime cut of goat meat sizzling in the flames. ‘Come on, come on!’ He muttered and then looked up furtively, anxious that one of the legionaries might catch sight of his ample rations.
But what if they do? They are just dice in my hands,
he reminded himself with a grin. Then his eyes settled on Pavo, their so-called leader.
And this one is a weighted die indeed
, he mused as he eyed his ex-slave, stood alone and silent, examining the fortifications while the rest of the legionaries bantered. He pulled the meat from the flames and sunk his teeth into the tender flesh, juices rolling down his chins.
Yes, this boy is becoming a valuable asset indeed; he just needs to be harnessed.
His eyes fell upon the bronze phalera hanging around Pavo’s neck. The piece had been given to the boy, years ago, when Tarquitius had bought him at the slave market. A withered crone had pushed the piece into Pavo’s hand and then turned to Tarquitius to hiss a scathing diatribe in his ear. It had chilled him to his core, but in her words lay a sparkling gem, a precious nugget of information that would once again have Pavo in the palm of his hand. He grinned.
Yes, perhaps it is time . . .

‘Your mind is working at all times!’ A voice chirped.

Tarquitius bit his tongue, yelped and then looked up to see Salvian smiling back at him – that same open, altruistic expression and half-mouthed grin that he had tolerated for the last six months. He barely disguised a grumble of discontent as he shuffled along to allow his protégé to sit. ‘I muse while I sleep, I consider when I am awake,’ Tarquitius said, then leaned in towards his protégé, wiping the meat juices from his chin with the back of his hand, eyes wide, ‘and at all times, I am leagues ahead of my opponent.’

Salvian nodded and his eyes darted as if a great truth had been revealed to him.

Tarquitius barely suppressed a snort; this man had been through the academies of Constantinople and had learned from the finest thinkers, philosophers and strategists. Yes, he was clever, Tarquitius thought, but his mind was almost too sponge-like, so easily impressionable, lacking that vital spark.
You simply can’t teach cunning,
he smirked. Regardless, Salvian would make ideal lapdog in the political world, to go alongside a military puppet like Pavo. Again he grinned.

No, the gift of cunning was only for a worthy few, he asserted. It was just such a trait that had seen Tarquitius rise through the political echelons. That rise had not been without setback and loss of face, he shuddered, remembering the dark dalliance with the Holy See that had spiralled out of control. But, as ever, he had proved indomitable until now, when he was deemed the best-placed official to face the mighty Athanaric himself. Well, he mused, he had at least shown shrewdness and temerity in bribing Dux Vergilius and buying his place on this mission.

‘When we travel west, to Dardarus,’ Salvian said, carving slices from an apple with his dagger, ‘what approach should we take with our Gothic counterparts?’

Tarquitius frowned, his mouth agape, stringy meat dangling from his teeth. Was he being questioned by this upstart? ‘
We
take the approach that
I
see fit, Ambassador. You watch and learn, and you will be wiser for it.’

Salvian nodded slowly at this. ‘And I value the opportunity, Senator. If there is anything I can contribute – perhaps a counter-proposal that seems to play into Athanaric’s favour, something to move things along – then I’d be happy to rehearse this with you?’

Tarquitius’ eyes narrowed.
Damn, that sounds good.
‘Perhaps, Salvian, perhaps. It is not the most sophisticated approach, but I’ll keep it in mind – as a last resort,’ he said and then sunk his teeth into his goat meat once more.

Salvian nodded graciously and then stood to leave the fire. Tarquitius watched him go, then turned back to look into the flames. His face grew red from the heat as he gorged on the goat meat and considered what was to come. The talks with Athanaric were what they were and no more. A façade shrouding the plan he and the Gothic Iudex had concocted. Power could be gained readily in times of crisis, and he had lived from meagre rations for too long.

It was time to spawn a crisis that would be remembered for a long, long time.

Pavo shivered, once more scrutinising the wooden stakes, ditch and rampart of the marching camp. Then he glanced out into the frozen night; anything could be out there, he thought, screwing up his eyes, struggling to see more than a few paces beyond the perimeter. Housing only his fifty men, the camp was a miniature of the more defensible counterpart that would be constructed by cohorts and full legions. So it wasn’t strictly a marching camp; yes it would give them precious time should they come under attack, but was it acceptable? Again he agonised over whether it would be right to insist that the legionaries – tired, hungry and frozen after the third day of marching – should reconstruct the west-facing side. Then again, he mused, why not? It would be difficult to further sour the relationship he had with these soldiers.

‘You have done well for yourself, boy,’ a voice spoke, startling him.

Pavo spun round to see the portly figure of Tarquitius, wrapped in a blue woollen cloak, his eyes wide and keen.

‘From a slave to, what, a centurion, in just a year?’

‘I’m no officer,’ Pavo replied guardedly; the Senator had witnessed the blatant lack of respect Crito and his cronies had shown Pavo throughout the march so far. ‘I’m in charge of this vexillatio, but without official rank.’

‘So the legions are bare, then?’ The Senator’s eyes narrowed and he craned in closer. ‘The recruits that are coming in, they cannot backfill the shortage of manpower being sent out into these lands?’

Pavo balked at the stench of the man’s breath. ‘You saw the fort, the few who line its battlements, the handful at the bridgehead. Supporting this truce with Fritigern is proving as corrosive as warring with any openly hostile neighbour.’

‘But how many more are to be levied from the Moesian farmlands – do you know?’

Pavo hesitated; a senator with an interest in military matters was not unusual, but this particular senator had a black history of dabbling in politics that spanned across the borders. There were no new levies scheduled before the spring, but he bit back on this knowledge and shrugged. ‘I’m just a legionary,’ he replied flatly.