Legionary: Viper of the North (56 page)

Pavo’s heart hammered. He heeled his mount into a turn and then a breakneck gallop back to the Roman camp, Draga’s cold laughter ringing in the air behind him.

Avitus swigged his soured and watered wine, eyeing the northern horizon carefully. Then he gazed through the mouth of the skin again.

‘Found anything in there yet, sir?’ The young legionary, Noster, chirped.

Avitus shot him a foul glare. ‘What is it with you? Keep your eyes to the north, and your tongue still.’

At this, Noster dropped his smile and fell into a nervous silence.

Avitus screwed up his eyes and sighed; the time for bitterness was past. He had hoped that perhaps the lad Pavo might not slay the senator tonight. But then the lad had been seen fleeing the camp, leaving a commotion in his wake as the senator’s body was discovered. It seemed any man was capable of dark deeds. ‘Here, have a drink,’ he handed the skin to the youngster. ‘I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’

‘Thanks,’ Noster nodded, then cautiously took a swig. ‘Are you worried about the Goths – that they will come for us tonight?’

Avitus shook his head with a wry grin, his mind once again flitting with images of his past, each one eroding his soul. ‘In these last days, I’ve been more worried that they would not come for us, lad.’ Avitus glanced to the youngster.

Noster’s face wrinkled in confusion.

‘Ach, ignore me and my maudlin talk.’ Avitus accepted the wineskin again. He made to take a swig when something caught his eye, on the ridge to the north. A rider was approaching at speed.

Avitus leaned forward. It was Pavo.
Good lad,
he thought,
you’re doing the right thing. Don’t run from your problems.

But then Avitus noticed an orange glow on the northern horizon, behind Pavo. ‘Dawn comes from the east, does it not?’ he said to Noster, whose gaze was also fixed on the glow.

‘Last time I checked, aye.’ Noster replied, gulping.

Then Avitus heard Pavo’s distant cries, saw his eyes wide with urgency, his brow furrowed, his arms waving. He threw down the wineskin and craned his neck from the watchtower. Now he could hear it, from the north; a distant din of rippling iron and thundering hooves.

Then, as Pavo raced to the north gate, his cries became clear. ‘The Goths are coming!’

Noster fumbled for the buccina and Avitus’ jaw fell open. ‘Pavo! What in Hades did you do out there?’

Buccinas sang urgent notes and at once, the camp was awash with activity as dawn breached the land. Legionaries spilled from their tents, dousing fires, snatching up helmets, armour and weapons. Archers scuttled to the practice range, taking up quivers. Stablehands dropped brushes and buckets and began frantically tying saddles to horses. Mounted officers steered their beasts through the organised chaos, barking orders, rousing their men with words of encouragement.

At the heart of the square of XI Claudia tents, Pavo fumbled to pull on his mail vest over his linen tunic, then wrapped his swordbelt around his waist and pulled on his intercisa helmet. No time for polishing, no time for checking. The Goths were on the march.

‘Pray to Mithras we can intercept them on the plain,’ Sura muttered as he hefted up his shield and spear, rolling his head on his shoulders to loosen the tension in his neck.

Pavo looked to his friend, still bleary-eyed from sleep. ‘Their numbers have swollen since they have been in the mountains,’ he said in a hushed voice, keen not to panic the sea of recruits who readied themselves nearby.

‘Good, I’ve got a bone to pick with these bastards,’ Sura said with a shrug, barely disguising a nervous twitch in his cheek. ‘The more, the better!’

At this, the nearest of the recruits broke out in a nervous chuckle.

Centurion Quadratus strode past, picking up on the mood, Optio Avitus by his side, as always. ‘That’s it, you mutts!’ Quadratus roared. ‘Let’s get every blade ready, every dart in place. I’ve only had you in my ranks for what, weeks? And you’re easily the best bunch of runts I’ve ever led!’

At this, the recruits fell silent, until the belly of one gurgled like a clearing drain.

Quadratus pulled a look of mock indignation. ‘Mithras’ sake, soldier! You’ll get your chance to eat your fill of hardtack when we’re on the march!’ Then he clenched a fist, his bottom lip curling. ‘Then, when we’ve shown the whoresons out there the way to Hades, we’ll be feasting on pheasant and garum dates!’

The recruits erupted in a cheer at this.

Pavo grinned at his centurion as the big Gaul came closer. ‘Glad to be marching with you today, sir.’

Quadratus smoothed his moustache. ‘Aye, I’d be glad to have you with me too. But you’re with Centurion Zosimus today.’

‘Sir?’ Pavo frowned.

‘He asked for you and,’ Quadratus turned to nod at Sura with a hint of a wicked grin, ‘
that mental bastard.
’

‘Why?’ Sura asked when his scowl had faded.

‘Same as always, we need to seed the centuries with veterans.’

Sura and Pavo looked back blankly.

Quadratus glared at them. ‘That means you two!’

Pavo looked to Sura and Sura gawped back.

Then Pavo hefted his ruby and gold shield and spear in one hand and saluted with the other. ‘May Mithras be with you, sir, out there.’

Then he turned his salute to Avitus as well. For an instant, the pair’s eyes met. He remembered Felicia’s last words.
Find the truth, Pavo, I beg of you.

He moved in close to the veteran, readying to ask the question.

But Avitus spoke first. ‘I knew you didn’t have it in you to kill the senator, Pavo. You’re a good lad.’ His words were solemn, almost sorrowful.

‘And that’s why I must ask you this, sir.’ Pavo steeled himself, leaning in to the optio’s ear. ‘I have heard grim rumour that you are . . . were a speculatore. Is it true?’

Avitus’ face fell and his gaze grew distant. Finally, he replied. ‘I’ve waited a long time to speak with someone, Pavo. But first, let today bring what it must. Then we can talk.’

Pavo clasped his forearm to Avitus’, the pair exchanging a firm nod.

With that, they parted, then Pavo followed Sura in a jog through the assembling centuries. All around them, the readied centuries streamed from the north gate of the camp. Outside, they formed up before the rise that led to the plain and Ad Salices, The Town by the Willows. Traianus cantered around them as they spilled from the camp, urging the men to keep a hundred feet between cohorts and to present a wide front.

Then Pavo and Sura heard Zosimus’ gruff commands echo over the clattering of iron and drumming of boots. Just ahead, the big Thracian was barking his century into line, readying to join the exodus.

‘Sir!’ Pavo barked. ‘Reporting for duty.’

Zosimus turned to him, his anvil jaw swelling as he grinned like a torturer receiving new subjects. ‘Ah, about bloody time!’

‘Which rank, sir?’ Sura asked, glancing to the century as it gradually formed into an iron square, walled with ruby and gold shields and roofed with fin-topped intercisa helmets and speartips. But all of the men in the square bore the raw, fearful expressions of recruits.

‘First rank, you’re heading up the first file.’

Sura raised his eyebrows. ‘But that’s where the
tesserarius
stands?’

‘Aye, it is – second only to the optio,’ Zosimus replied with a sardonic smile. ‘You’re a clever bugger, aren’t you?’

Sura cast a disbelieving glance to Pavo as he took his place at the front-right of the square. Then he wasted no time in barking his file into a tighter line.

Pavo looked to Zosimus. ‘And me?’

Zosimus’ face was sincere, and he held Pavo’s gaze. ‘Right where you are, Optio. I’ve never replaced Paulus since those whoresons slit his throat in Dardor.’

Pavo’s heart swelled and his skin rippled with pride, disbelief and . . . that old trickle of icy fear. Could he lead these men as Zosimus’ second in command? These men were raw, young, and so much depended on this battle.

‘You’re sure I’m ready, sir?’ He spoke in a whisper, frowning.

Zosimus’ top lip curled in distaste, and he leaned in to Pavo’s ear. ‘Knock that rubbish out of your skull, lad. Do you think I was ready? I nearly soiled my tunic when I was made centurion. Gallus promoted me with one line of advice:
lead as you wish to be led
. And Gallus has backed your promotion.’

Pavo glanced past the centurion, to the centre of the XI Claudia area, where Gallus stood. The tribunus’ expression was ice cold as he surveyed the readying legion. Then he turned his gaze on Pavo, and gave him the faintest of nods. Pavo’s thoughts swirled. Then he looked into the Zosimus’ eyes. ‘But, sir, when Lupicinus put me at the head of a vexillatio, I struggled . . . ’

Zosimus cut him off, gripping him by the shoulders. ‘Do you know what clinched it – for me and for Gallus?’

Pavo frowned, shaking his head.

‘Crito; when we were in the dell, not long after you had taken down the bridge over the Beli Lom. He went to Gallus and recommended you. Said you were one of the finest men he had ever marched with.’ Zosimus held his stunned gaze for a few heartbeats, then stepped away and roared to the century. ‘Ready to move out!’

Pavo’s skin rippled as he stared into the space Zosimus had stood. Crito; the veteran who had regarded him like an unwashed latrine for so long; the embodiment of his own self-doubt. Something had changed in the man in those last few weeks before he was slain. Perhaps it was the loss of his family at Marcianople; perhaps it was the realisation that they were all in it together at that desperate skirmish at the bridge. Whatever the reason was, this revelation felt like honey in Pavo’s veins. Like sand trickling from a timer, his self-doubt drained away, leaving only pride. The phalera juddered on his chest as his heart hammered.

He turned to the century and filled his lungs, drew his spatha then rapped it on his shield boss.

‘You heard the centurion. Pull together, stand tall, and . . . move out!’

Chapter 24