Legionary: Viper of the North (7 page)

Pavo’s weary mind suddenly focused and his guts turned over as he saw Lupicinus’ gaze sweep along the front rank. Sure enough, it came to rest on him.

‘Legionary Pavo,’ he said gleefully. ‘You will lead the fifty.’ The comes flicked his finger to the four nearest contubernia of comitatenses and another two from the native Claudia recruits. ‘I’ll leave it to you to choose your second-in-command. I want you formed up with full marching equipment and rations for two weeks by the time the sun touches the horizon.’ With that, Lupicinus turned to the rest of the legion and barked orders to begin double sentry duty.

Pavo’s blood felt like icewater in his veins. He looked to the pink tinge on the horizon, then he turned to the forty eight formed up before him. The recruits looked petrified and the veterans of Lupicinus’ centuries scowled at him in distaste. The breath seemed shallow in his lungs and his tongue bloated like bread. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, glancing to the comes. Lupicinus smirked at his hesitation. Pavo closed his eyes and thought of Gallus; what would the iron tribunus say to rally his men on a frozen morning, when a treacherous march into foreign lands waited on them?

‘Come on, come on! Do I have to get someone to hold your hand again?’ Lupicinus abruptly interrupted his train of thought.

Rattled, Pavo turned to the men and bawled, his voice shaking. ‘What are you staring at? You heard the comes: get kitted up and get back here. We move out before first light!’ His words died in the air and his heart sank as he saw the recruits’ faces whiten even more in fear and the scowling veterans’ eyes narrow further in distaste.

‘Bloody boy telling men what to do,’ one of the veterans muttered to the legionary next to him. It was Crito, the towering, sunken-eyed legionary from Lupicinus’ comitatenses who had looked on gleefully when Pavo had been ridiculed at the bridge the previous day. Crito sneered at Pavo, the pockmarks on his cheeks emphasised in the torchlight, before he turned and quick marched for the sleeping quarters.

Pavo was left standing alone, and he felt colder than ever. Then he realised he needed to choose his second-in-command and looked up, seeking out Sura. His friend was already walking over to join him.

‘I’ll be watching your back as usual then?’ Sura offered.

‘Aye, and I’ll be glad of it.’ Pavo forced a grin, despite the fear swirling in his gut.

As Sura followed the fifty into the barrack blocks, Pavo turned to Lupicinus and his riders. ‘What’s my briefing, sir?’ He addressed the comes, casting a soldier-like stare over Lupicinus’ shoulder and towards the horizon.

‘The briefing comes in two parts,’ Lupicinus replied, nodding to the filthy Goth straggler. ‘The first part is as you might expect. Istrita, this man’s village, is in the midst of some kind of standoff between the rebel Goths and those loyal to Fritigern. He says much blood has been spilled already, and there is much more to come.’ Lupicinus slapped a hand on his shoulder, a condescending smile on his face. ‘Then again, I know you’ll get by; after all, you’re one of the
heroes
of the Bosporus mission.’

Pavo couldn’t hold back a frown as he flicked his gaze to the comes. ‘Sir, I don’t know why you insist on . . . ’

But Lupicinus interrupted. ‘And then there’s the second part of the brief – far more important than slaying a few rebel Goths. You’ll have another two passengers coming along for the ride.’ Lupicinus opened his arms out to the door of the
principia
. There, in the doorway of the officers’ quarters at the centre of the fort, stood a pair of silhouetted figures, one squat and portly, the other tall and athletic. ‘Come, ambassadors, meet your guide.’

The two figures walked forward and Pavo’s eyes locked onto the nearest of them: short, corpulent and waddling like an overfed goose dressed in purple robes. Then the torchlight revealed a bald pate ringed with wispy grey-blonde tufts, then buttery, pitted skin and a triple row of chins. The man’s beady eyes rested on Pavo like a predator.

No!
Pavo’s stomach fell away.

‘Ah,’ Senator Tarquitius grinned like a shark. ‘So the fates conspire to see us reunited, Pavo?’

Pavo’s heart thundered; he hadn’t seen his ex-slavemaster since the tumultuous end to the Bosporus mission. Dread gripped him to think what duplicity and scheming had brought the man here to a border fort in the dead of night. He frowned at Lupicinus. ‘What is he doing here?’

‘The senator is to lead the long-awaited ambassadorial party into Gutthiuda.’

‘So it’s happening? You’re going to speak with Athanaric?’ Pavo’s mind raced. Despite his cynicism, this peace parley – if handled correctly – could be the key to establishing a truce with Athanaric until the Persian campaign was over and the manpower returned from the east. Yet it was to be headed up by the most odious creature he had ever known.

‘Indeed, we are,’ Tarquitius replied, smugly.

Then the tall, lean man beside Tarquitius stepped forward into the torchlight. ‘We will do all we can to broker a lasting peace.’

All eyes turned to him.

Pavo saw that his expression was earnest, unlike that of Tarquitius. His features were sharp, his cheekbones like blades, and his green eyes alert, delicate lines beside them betraying his age. His brown locks were shot with flecks of grey, dangling on his brow in the old Roman style. He wore an eastern-style, long-sleeved tunic with a high collar, blue woollen trousers tucked into brown leather riding boots and he carried a stuffed hemp satchel.

‘Ambassador Salvian,’ Tarquitius announced, ‘my protégé.’

Poor bastard,
Pavo thought.

‘Senator, Ambassador, Pavo here will head up your escort,’ Lupicinus said, then turned to Pavo, his nose wrinkling. ‘Pavo, you will escort the ambassadorial party as far as the crossroads by
Wodinscomba
. That’s, what, some ten days march from here?’

Pavo envisioned the map of Gutthiuda, and the terrain between the fort and the rugged hollow that marked the border between Fritigern and Athanaric’s lands. ‘Eight days on a quick march, sir,’ he replied evenly, sensing Tarquitius’ gaze crawling over his skin.

‘Very well. But a quick march is less important than ensuring the ambassadorial party goes unharmed at all costs, understood?’

‘What happens once we reach the crossroads, sir?’ Pavo asked.

‘There, the senator and the ambassador will rendezvous with,’ he paused, as if he had detected a bad smell, ‘Tribunus Gallus and his party. I have sent a rider ahead at full gallop to contact Gallus and his men and divert them to Wodinscomba. When you rendezvous, the tribunus will then escort the ambassadorial party to Dardarus.’

Pavo’s heart warmed at the thought; Gallus was to be the man to lead the ambassadorial party into Dardarus, Athanaric’s citadel. His only regret was that he could not march with them. ‘And my fifty, sir, should we then wait at Wodinscomba for the tribunus and the ambassadors to return?’

Lupicinus sighed. ‘Were my orders not clear enough for you, soldier? Make haste to Wodinscomba. Then, as soon as you have rendezvoused, you get your fifty to Istrita . . . and leave the thinking for the real officers and nobles.’

Pavo gulped back the urge to snort at this latest arrogant blast. Instead, he saluted, gazed to the horizon, channelled the anger into his lungs, and bellowed with all his might; ‘Yes,
sir!
’ Lupicinus and Tarquitius flinched at his blast before correcting their stances. Ambassador Salvian barely disguised a smirk at this.

Pavo instantly liked the man.

The gates of the fortress clunked shut and the fifty set off for the pontoon bridge. They moved at a quick march, two abreast with Salvian riding on a white gelding by their left flank and the copious burden of Tarquitius just behind on an unfortunate black stallion. They passed through a pool of thick, freezing fog that clung to a dip in the hinterland and then crested the clear, frosted ground by the training field, sparkling in the breaking dawn.

Up front, Pavo’s breath clouded before him, his lips and nostrils stinging from the cold. Before leaving the fort, they had paused only to throw down some hastily cooked millet porridge and to wash it down with icy water. While the rest had gulped down their meal, Pavo had barely managed to eat half of his ration, his gut churning with anxiety. His thoughts danced with taunting self-doubt and the image of the fifty and Tarquitius scowling at him – or worse, laughing at him – from behind.

He glanced to Sura, by his side; Sura had stuck by him resolutely in his time with the legion. For a moment, a glow of optimism grew in his belly when he thought of Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Felix marching side by side like this.

Then he shot a look over his shoulder, not for too long as he didn’t want to arouse mistrust in his men. From his snatched glance, he could see that the comitatenses at the front of the fifty marched well, in formation and at a good pace; Lupicinus’ legionaries were obviously well-drilled soldiers. But then there was the handful to the rear – the Claudia recruits; they were ragged, some falling back or marching wide of the column – only to be expected given that they only had a few weeks of legionary life under their belts. He remembered his own fledgling days when a quick march felt like outright torture. It was not so much the pace, but the relentless endurance required to keep it up for ten hours or more every day, especially when laden with the full marching kit: earth shifting basket, hand axe, pickaxe and sickle together with several water skins, a soured wineskin, wraps of hardtack biscuits, millet grain and salted mutton, all pulling at the shoulders. And then there was the mail-shirt, digging into the skin, whilst boots scraped on ankles and helmets chafed on scalps, not to mention the crux of the legionary kit: the spatha sword, hasta spear and the weighty legionary shield.

Despite this, he felt sure they needed a stern word to bring them into formation, but then doubts crept into his thoughts again; would they see it as overly heavy-handed? They were only a quarter mile from the fort after all. No, he affirmed, marching in formation was crucial for the swiftness of the mission. And potentially, he reasoned, for their survival. He would do it for his own good and theirs.

‘Keep it tighter,’ he roared, then took a breath and turned to finish his sentence;
tighter at the back!
But before he could finish, a voice cut him off from just behind.

‘If you think you can march better than us, then drop back here and carry one of these,’ Crito grumbled. The rest of the older men muttered in agreement at this.

Pavo fell silent as he glanced at the veterans. They were laden not only with their kit and ration packs, but also – in lieu of pack mules – with the goatskin and timber tent packs doubling their burden. Despite this they were marching in perfect time and formation and Crito was probably the finest example. Pavo’s lips trembled as he tried to think of a line that would clarify his order, something that wouldn’t sound cloying to the veterans. But too much time passed and the moment was gone.

They came to the bridgehead. There, four legionaries manned the castrum and another two milled around the giant ballista, all stamping their feet and blowing into their hands for heat. Pavo slowed and saluted, just as the vexillatio had done yesterday. ‘Vexillatio, coming through,’ he called to the sentries.

They straightened and saluted. Then, on seeing that no centurion or true officer marched at their head, they slumped. ‘Another vexillatio? Is there anyone left in the fort?’ One groaned, his words tinged with anxiety.

Pavo marched past in silence, but he heard the men of his column exchanging gripes about the situation. In the flurry of muttering and whispers, he was sure he could hear his name being mentioned in acid tones. His skin burned. He glanced up to see Tarquitius’ eyes fixed upon him, revelling in his ex-slave’s discomfort. Then he looked to his side to see Salvian the ambassador watching him with that earnest expression.
Probably shocked by the mumbling boy who’s been tasked with protecting him
, he mused, turning to study the ground in front of him again. Then, a nudge from Sura pulled him from his own self-loathing.