Legionary: Viper of the North (11 page)

‘Ah,’ Tarquitius flashed a brief grin that never reached his eyes, ‘I see.’

Pavo turned to look out through the fog once more, waiting for the Senator to go away. But Tarquitius did not move.

‘Her words would change your life, Pavo.’

Pavo’s skin crawled and his eyes darted across the forest.
Her
; the word meant only one thing between Pavo and Tarquitius. It was the day the Senator had bought him at the slave market in Constantinople. He remembered the heat, the stench and the sense of dying hope in his heart. Then he remembered the gnarled crone who had pushed through the crowd and pressed the bronze phalera into his hand. In one heartbeat he had nothing, in the next he had hope once more. Whether she was a demented old woman or a messenger of sorts, it was as if Father had spoken to him. As if neither death nor the thousand miles between Constantinople and Father’s bones in the ruins of Bezabde could separate them. He spun where he stood. ‘What did you say?’

‘You do want to know the truth, don’t you? About the phalera?’ Tarquitius’ eyes glinted.

‘About my father . . . ’ Pavo mouthed numbly. ‘Are you mocking me? What can you tell me of him?’

Tarquitius ignored the plea. ‘Give me more detail on the limitanei. How strongly is Sardica garrisoned? Does Gallus plan to send any more men to bolster the barracks there?’

‘To Hades with Sardica – tell me what you know!’ He said, his voice cracking.

‘Perhaps,’ Tarquitius’ face melted into a vile grin. ‘But only in good time. First, you must accept that you are not to deny me any information I may require.’

Pavo frowned, hatred building in his heart.

‘Otherwise,’ Tarquitius’ face fell sour and his lips curled in a grimace, then he tapped a finger to his temple, ‘the truth will stay in here!’ Tarquitius held his gaze for what felt like an eternity, then he turned to shuffle away towards the fire.

Pavo’s blood ran cold with panic, and he loathed himself for what tumbled from his lips; ‘There is a half cohort in the city, and another century man the fortlets and watchtowers by the river.’

Tarquitius slowed, turning back to Pavo with a sickly grin, his eyes sparkling. ‘Good . . . good. Now tell me, when are the garrison due to return to the XI Claudia fort?’

Pavo frowned, shrugging. ‘Whenever a permanent garrison can be founded from the local legions?’

‘Ah,’ Tarquitius said in resignation, ‘not good enough.’ Then he raised his eyebrows and fixed Pavo with a stare that turned his gut. ‘If you want to know what’s up here,’ he tapped his temple again, ‘then you’ll find out the
exact
day when the garrison is to change over.’ With that, Tarquitius spun to stomp back past the fire and to his tent.

Pavo’s mind reeled as he watched the senator go. Then he looked over to the fire, longing to see a friendly face. But his gaze fell upon Crito; the veteran legionary stared back at him, muttering to his cronies, who looked over at Pavo then laughed. He twisted round and stared out of the camp again, past the palisade and into the fog, his thoughts churning.

‘Pavo?’ Sura said, coming over to him, gnawing at a piece of barely defrosted salted mutton. ‘What did he say to you?’ Sura frowned, casting a glance at Tarquitius’ tent.

Pavo looked to his friend, his mood lightening just a fraction. ‘Just his usual haughty babble – and I’m certain he’s digging himself into trouble again.’

Sura nodded, unconvinced, noticing that Pavo was thumbing at the phalera medallion. ‘And?’

Pavo looked him in the eye. Sura and Felicia were the only two who knew the whole story of that day at the slave market. He issued a weary smile. ‘And something else. I’m not quite sure what, but I’ll have to make sense of it first, before I act on it.’

Sura shrugged, nodding. ‘Then you can think over it while you eat and get warmth into your veins. Come on,’ he beckoned towards the fire.

Pavo gave Sura a weary look. ‘I don’t think my presence will be welcome.’ His eyes traced the line of six goatskin tents and the huddle of veterans and recruits, now sitting as close to the flames as they could get without being singed. Only Salvian the ambassador stood back from the blaze, seemingly drawing warmth enough from a borrowed woollen legionary cloak.

‘Come on,’ Sura pleaded. ‘Just be yourself. They’re too busy trying to sink their wine ration to be bothered giving you any more grief.’

Pavo considered declining the offer, then realised the rim of his helmet was now freezing to his forehead, and relented.

As he shuffled over to the fire, the gruff chatter from Crito and the veterans died, and all eyes turned to him. But, to his relief, the Claudia recruits pushed apart to let him in, one offering up his wineskin. Pavo made to step forward, then hesitated and shook his head. ‘No, you lads have your fill, I’ll get my share later.’ His heart warmed at the grateful nods and grins from them, but then he heard a familiar grumbling from the veterans.

‘Aye, like you haven’t got an officer’s wine ration anyway?’ Crito barked.

Pavo frowned and made to retort, but halted himself. For this mission he was not a member of the ranks, and could not be seen to bicker with the men. Instead, he sought a way to diffuse the ill-feeling. He reached down to his ration pack and fumbled with his numb fingers until he found the wax-coated disc. He had spent a good chunk of his wage on this cheese and had yet to find the opportunity to enjoy it. He walked over to the veterans and held out the round.

‘I’ve got bugger all wine, actually,’ he spoke calmly and with a wry smile. ‘I picked up three skins from the warehouse this morning and it turned out they were all water!’ He glanced around at the veterans, all of whom returned a stony glance. One broke ranks to chuckle at Pavo’s misfortune, but was silenced with a sharp elbow to the ribs. Pavo sighed. ‘Look, there’s enough of this cheese to go round – get our bellies properly full before we sleep?’

A few of the veterans licked their lips at the thought, and one belly rumbled like thunder, but Crito spoke first. ‘Your kind,’ he stabbed a finger at Pavo, ‘are going to be the death of the army and the death of the empire.’

Suddenly, Pavo felt on trial as all eyes turned on him, and only the crackling of the fire sounded. Chattering voices in his mind told him he should be shouting the soldier down for insubordination, but his tongue felt bloated and useless.

‘Boys who have had a nip of blood and think they are heroes,’ Crito continued, his pitted skin and sunken eyes lit from below by the fire. ‘You’ve never seen half the action we have, but you step up in front of us when you should be sat over there,’ he swiped a finger at the recruits, ‘while the real soldiers lead.’

Pavo’s mind reeled. He had been through all of this before and had proved himself to Zosimus, Felix, Quadratus, Avitus and most importantly Gallus. He had been a whisper from death more times than he could remember in that nightmare of a campaign to the Kingdom of Bosporus.
And you’ll have to do it all again
, he realised,
but this time you have to prove to them not that you’re fit to fight with them, but that you’re worthy of leading them.
His mind chattered with a thousand voices, each offering opposing advice, then he emitted a weary sigh; ‘Think what you like,’ he spoke flatly. ‘It’s double sentry duty tonight,’ he continued. ‘Finish your rations and settle in your tents. I’ll take first watch. Crito, you’re on shift with me.’ With that, he tossed the cheese round onto the ground by Crito’s legs, then turned and walked back to the edge of the enclosure. There, he pulled his grey woollen cloak tight around his shoulders as the cold crept over him again.

A lone owl hooted from a nearby pine, punctuating the random crackle of the now dying fire. Pavo stood watch by the western gate of the miniature camp. Despite the day’s strength-sapping march, he found little trouble staying awake, the frost settling on his brow and nose in a fine film and the modest heat from the small brazier glowing by his feet barely registering. He glanced over at Crito again; the towering legionary stood watch at the eastern gate, and the only noise he had made was the occasional thunderous fart or serrated belch.

He touched a hand to the phalera medallion and raked over Tarquitius’ words. What truth could the fat reprobate really offer him? From experience, the man was probably just torturing him with some whimsical notion, no doubt invented in the senator’s head. Then he saw the withered, puckered features of the crone once more in his mind’s eye, and shivered. No, her words to Tarquitius had been all too real.

And what would Father think of him now, he mused? From memory, his father had never been a leader of soldiers. Perhaps this was why he too was also ill-suited to such a role. He calculated how many more days of this torture were left and resolved that as soon as they were back in the fortress, he would explain to Lupicinus how he felt and plead to keep his place in the ranks. Then he imagined the prancing fool’s expression and instantly hated himself for being so weak.

‘Bloody idiot!’ He hissed to himself.

‘Being a bit harsh on yourself?’ A voice spoke, right behind him.

Pavo turned, wide-eyed. A silhouetted figure stood there.

‘Relax,’ the figure chuckled, holding up empty hands and walking forward into the faint firelight to reveal keen eyes and sharp features, the mouth lifted at one end in a half-mouthed grin.

‘Ambassador!’ Pavo spluttered in relief. ‘Never creep up on a legionary.’

Salvian cocked an eyebrow. ‘Especially when he’s had a day like you’ve had? And please, call me Salvian.’

Pavo frowned and adopted the serious, distant stare that seemed to be the norm for officers.

Salvian nodded with a sigh and a sparkle in his eyes. ‘You’ve taken a battering over these last few days, Pavo, a real battering. I heard Comes Lupicinus crowing about his military record, then deriding the mission to the Kingdom of Bosporus. Then you’ve had Crito taking every opportunity to destroy you in front of the rest of the men.’

Pavo’s chest burned. So he was being picked on now by this stranger. But before he could retort, Salvian continued;

‘Yet look at you now; still standing, while the rest sleep, having succumbed to weariness. That tells me a lot about you, lad. You have handled the pressure so well.’

Pavo stammered, disarmed by the statement. ‘I . . . I could have done better. I’ve led lads younger than me once before, but never veterans like this lot, like Crito.’

Salvian chuckled wryly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder and lowering his voice so the veteran wouldn’t hear. ‘Crito is what most veterans are: grunts who have put their necks in front of countless enemy swords for an empire that treats them like an expendable resource – no wonder he’s a grumpy swine.’

Pavo smirked at this, thinking of Zosimus and Quadratus, both with the tempers of a bear with a ripping hangover. Then he frowned; Zosimus and Quadratus commanded respect despite their gruffness, but Crito seemed spiteful to the core, and this made Pavo uneasy. It was as if the veteran’s challenges to his authority were borne of pure hatred and nothing else. ‘It feels as if I have a rope round my neck when he challenges me, like I want to swallow my own words.’

Salvian issued another half-grin. ‘Ah, yes. Self-doubt is a pox indeed. It plagues me too – more than I care to admit. You’re from the capital, yes?’

‘Constantinople runs in my blood,’ Pavo replied, frowning. ‘What of it?’

‘Well, you’ll know how many pompous bastards call the place their home, pompous bastards who have seemingly been born with an answer to everything.’ Salvian deftly nodded to the tent Tarquitius was sleeping in.

Pavo nodded at this.