Sura frowned in indignation, but the big man continued.
‘And I missed out on all these sorties over the river because apparently I’m well placed to train the recruits. I’ll bloody well place my foot right up their ars . . . ’
Pavo leaned forward and coughed, jolting Quadratus back to them.
‘Mithras! Have you been swimming in ale?’ Quadratus recoiled at the stale stench from Pavo.
‘Trouble in town sir, I broke up a fight between drunks.’
‘They don’t have anything better to do than sup ale before noon?’ Quadratus mused, then cocked an eyebrow, folded his bottom lip and tilted his head from side to side as if considering the logic.
‘Er . . . sir, you wanted us for something?’ Pavo asked.
Quadratus looked at them blankly for a moment, then clicked his fingers. ‘Aye, I did,’ he nodded up to the banks of the Danubius and grinned. ‘You’ll like this. Come on,’ he beckoned them forward up the dirt path that wound over to the banks.
They headed towards a bobbing timber structure that straddled the river. The pontoon bridge had been pulled together from the remaining husk of the Classis Moesica, the rotting hulls of the triremes roped together and boarded over. At the near end of the bridge, a sturdy castrum had been erected, the timber construction serving as both a bridgehead and a fortlet. The bridge itself seemed impossibly long, the power of the river’s current bending it into a gentle crescent. All this to provide a means of rapid Roman response to the trouble in Fritigern’s lands. The price of truce, Pavo mused.
As if reading his thoughts, Quadratus nodded north-west, over the river. ‘Let’s hope Tribunus Gallus and the lads can nip these uprisings in the bud.’
Gallus. Pavo’s heart warmed at the mention of the tribunus’ name. True, the leader of the legion was cold and utterly resolute, and Pavo had feared and hated the man in equal measure in his early days as a recruit. But time had served to show him that the tribunus’ iron heart was but a necessary veneer. And what a fine leader of the XI Claudia he was. Indeed, if there was any one soldier he would bet on to walk into Hades and better the demons that lay in wait there, it was Gallus. Over a week ago, the tribunus had headed north with a strong vexillatio, intent on tracking down the lead band of these Gothic rebels, leaving Quadratus in charge at the fort. Pavo’s gaze grew distant as he issued a prayer that they would return safely.
Then he was shaken back to the present with a thick crack of rope, then a hissing followed by a stark series of thuds.
‘Did I really just see that?’ Sura frowned, elbowing Pavo.
Up ahead, by the castrum, a cluster of four legionaries were fussing over some contraption beside which sat an empty cart, lopsided with one wheel buckled. As they approached it, he frowned: it looked like a mutated ballista – it had the frame of a bolt-thrower but it was bristling with four missiles instead of just one. Three lengths of rope, each as thick as his forearm, were coiled at each edge of the device. The legionaries pulled at winches, stretching this rope taut along the slider. Then they slipped four massive iron-headed bolts in place between the ropes and the bow-shaped iron front-piece.
‘Ah, ladies! Glad you could join us at last!’ The short, bald Optio Avitus grinned as he spun round from the device.
‘Ladies?’ Quadratus cocked an eyebrow.
At this, Avitus’ face fell and he quickly saluted. ‘Ready for inspection, sir!’
Pavo suppressed a grin. Avitus had never quite adjusted from the days when he had shared a contubernium with Quadratus, Pavo and the other veterans. They had shared a tent, rations, reward and punishment together. And the banter . . . he cocked an eyebrow as some of the stories and pranks flitted through his mind . . . the banter had been brutal.
But then Quadratus’ grimace melted into a grin. ‘Ready for inspection? Aye, whatever. Let this pair of pussies see this beauty do her thing,’ he tapped a finger on the front-piece of the device from which the four missile heads poked.
Avitus nodded and grinned at Pavo and Sura. ‘Who needs comitatenses legions when you have one of these?’ He lifted a hand and addressed the four who manned the device. ‘Ready? Loose!’
Pavo flinched as the device jolted like an angered bull. Then, with a whoosh, all four of the ballista bolts ripped through the air in a low trajectory. They sped across the broad waters of the river before smashing into a felled spruce on the far side, frost and splinters spraying up as the missile heads burst from the other side of the trunk. The four bolts quivered as if pleading to be set free in flight again, and Pavo gawped at the dark crack that ran the length of the tree.
‘Told you you’d like it,’ Quadratus muttered smugly. ‘Athanaric can line up his mighty cavalry over there for us. Yes . . . that’d do just nicely.’
Pavo walked around the device. He noted that it was set on the ground on thick stilts; the nearby cart had probably been used to haul the hefty piece of equipment from the fortress before collapsing on its axles.
‘Static artillery,’ Avitus said, reading his thoughts, ‘I wouldn’t fancy hauling one of those on a sortie! The smith and the carpenter at the fort reckon they might be able to develop an axle and wheel that’ll carry this bugger more than a few hundred feet . . . but they’ve been saying that for weeks.’
‘Shame. Still though, are there any more of them?’
Avitus lifted his helmet and scratched his bald head in mock bewilderment. ‘Son, when was the last time you saw a new pair of boots issued, never mind a piece of artillery?’
Pavo glanced down at his boots; split at the shin and with soles worn to almost nothing. He shrugged. ‘So where did this one come from?’
Avitus glanced at Quadratus, who nodded. ‘Thrift and, er, swift thinking,’ he replied.
Avitus continued; ‘Aye, let’s just say we, er, salvaged what we could before the vultures took everything we had east, with the comitatenses. This fine device you see is hand-crafted from timber hewn from the warehouse shelves and iron smelted from a set of mail vests that . . . went missing.’
Pavo grinned. ‘Nice work . . . ’ his words tailed off and the ground started to shake, he spun in the direction of the fortress. The decurion from the training field led his turma of thirty equites at a trot towards the bridge. The riders were carrying the ruby and gold shields of the XI Claudia, holding hasta spears vertical and wearing mail shirts and intercisa helmets, their ruby cloaks fluttering in their wake. Behind them marched a column of fifty legionaries.
‘Really? Another vexillatio?’ Sura moaned.
Pavo mouthed the same question. This was the sixth detachment that had been sent out in the last two days.
‘Aye. Something’s very wrong over there,’ Avitus frowned, looking north. ‘It’s all very well keeping the peace with Fritigern, but we must be down to what, a few hundred men?’
The decurion at the head of the vexillatio issued a brisk salute to which Quadratus responded. Then, with a thunder of boots and hooves on timber, the party moved onto the bridge and on into Gutthiuda.
Quadratus sighed and shrugged almost apologetically. ‘The order for that lot to be despatched came direct from Dux Vergilius, tucked up in the safety of a villa, miles to the south. What can we do when we are at the whims of a fool like him?’
Pavo frowned. He had never met in person the Magister Militum Per Illyricum, the man nominally in charge of the armies of all Moesia and the river fleet. However, he had witnessed the man’s last visit to the fort: a grossly overweight, red-faced and constantly trembling individual, at ease only after he had emptied several goblets of wine.
‘Hello?’ Avitus chirped, shielding his eyes from the sun to look back to the fort. ‘Seems we have reinforcements?’
Pavo and the rest of the group turned to look. There, approaching the fort gates from the southern highway, a column approached. A cluster of some fifteen finely armoured riders headed a column of two centuries of legionaries who filed up behind them, carrying freshly painted blue shields. The lead
rider, distinguished by an old-style and somewhat exaggerated horsehair plume on his helmet, was calling up to the gatehouse. The sentry atop the walls was pointing north, right at the giant ballista. The leader nodded then barked to his infantry and all but ten of them split off to file inside the fort. Then, the remaining ten legionaries and the riders moved towards the ballista.
‘Comitatenses?’ Pavo reasoned, noticing the fine scale vests the foot soldiers wore. ‘I thought they had all gone east?’
‘Not all of them,’ Quadratus said with a sigh.
‘Sir?’ Pavo quizzed.
‘Going by the ridiculous plume, I’d say that was Comes Lupicinus. He was in charge of the Thracian field armies. I’d heard rumours that he had been left behind with a few centuries of men while his legions were summoned east. And let’s just say that Emperor Valens left him back here for a reason,’ the big Gaulish centurion rolled his eyes.
‘Aye,’ Avitus added, ‘I’ve heard of him; an arsehole who wouldn’t know the right end of a spatha until you shoved it in his gut.’
Just then, a young legionary stumbled from the training field and into the path of the plumed rider’s horse. Then the rider thrashed at the young man with a cane and a sharp crack of wood on skin split the air followed by a roar of pain.
‘Just stay quiet, I’ll deal with him,’ Quadratus insisted.
Pavo watched as the mounted party drew closer and slowed to a trot, the following ten legionaries catching up. The leader wore an antiquated bronze muscled cuirass and a fine, silk-lined crimson cloak. He glared down his nose, his lips pinched and his piercing grey eyes full of scrutiny. A cold bastard. Pavo hoped for a fleeting moment that this was another in the mould of Gallus.
Then Lupicinus lifted a hand in silence and his men stopped behind him. He trotted forward, peacock-like, eyeing the group around the ballista, nose wrinkling as if he had stumbled into an open latrine. He bristled and flexed his shoulders. ‘Would Centurion Quadratus make himself known!’ The man’s tone was sharp and biting.
‘Sir!’ Quadratus replied, standing to attention.
Lupicinus cocked an eyebrow at the big Gaul. ‘You are relieved of your command, Centurion. As Comes of the Field Armies of Thracia, I will be overseeing the limitanei of this region as a whole, and I’ll be acting tribunus for the XI Claudia. My two centuries will bolster the numbers of the XI Claudia and will lead your rogues and farmers by example.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Quadratus barked back, masking any sign of humiliation well – quite a feat for the temperamental Gaul.
‘And I’ll have my work cut out, it seems; already I have heard word of a missing wage purse, stolen from within the fort?’ He eyed each of them like culprits.
‘And I’ll expect a full briefing on this activity,’ Lupicinus continued, flicking his head to the giant ballista, ‘for an officer should not be distracted by fanciful engineering. He should be with his men at all times. Inspiring them, encouraging them,’ he leaned forward from the saddle and clenched a fist, ‘leading them.’
‘Never a truer word has been spoken, sir,’ Quadratus replied. ‘Indeed, I’ve just spent all morning on the training field with . . . ’
‘You’ll speak when I say you can speak, Centurion!’ Lupicinus barked. ‘And you’ll sort out your armour before you next stand in front of me,’ the comes flicked a finger at Quadratus’ rusting, torn mail vest, bringing a chorus of derisive laughter from Lupicinus’ riders and infantry. ‘You’re a disgrace to your legion, and to your empire!’
Pavo’s chest stung with ire as he saw Quadratus shuffle on the spot, face burning in humiliation and fury. The big Gaul had forgone the last of the fresh sets of armour to allow those travelling north with Tribunus Gallus to have it. And he was being mocked for the gesture. Pavo stared at the comes; this man was no Gallus.
Then, like an asp, Lupicinus’ eyes snapped round to fix on Pavo. ‘You have something to say, soldier? Name and rank?’ He demanded.
Pavo’s stomach fell away and his skin prickled with an icy dread. ‘Legionary Numerius Vitellius Pavo of the XI Claudia, third cohort, first century, sir!’
Lupicinus heeled his mount over to Pavo and looked him up and down, then recoiled with a gasp. ‘You reek of ale, soldier. Drunk on duty? Worse than sleeping on watch! You know the punishment for that, don’t you?’
‘Flogging at best, sir, or death,’ Pavo replied flatly as the rest of the XI Claudia legionaries looked on.
‘Aye,’ Lupicinus hissed, ‘and if I learn that you’re the wage thief . . . you know what they used to do to legionaries devoid of honour, do you? They would force them, screaming, into a hemp sack filled with poisonous asps.’ The comes was almost purring. ‘Then hurl the sack into the depths of a river.’
‘Permission to speak, sir!’ Quadratus stepped forward again.
Lupicinus spun to him and flared his nostrils, eyes wide in indignation. ‘Speak.’
‘Pavo was just a moment ago involved in settling a dispute in the town. Drunken locals causing bother. I can vouch for his sobriety.’
‘Oh, can you?’ Lupicinus straightened up in his saddle again and turned to Pavo.
‘And he is a commendable soldier, sir,’ Quadratus continued. ‘Played more than his part in the Bosporus mission. A campaign bloodier than most I can remember. Helped keep this empire in one piece, sir.’
Lupicinus snorted at this. ‘The mission to old Bosporus was a debacle; little more than a cull of half of the border legions.’ He jabbed a finger at each of them. ‘It’s down to you that we’re so stretched now!’ His face split with a malicious grin as his riders and the ten legionaries behind them erupted in belly laughter. Pavo noticed that one towering legionary in particular seemed to be relishing the humiliation. The man had sunken eyes and pitted skin. Pavo glared back at him, feeling his blood boil. Then he froze, feeling a cold blade slip under his chin.
‘What’s this?’ Lupicinus cooed, having hooked his spatha blade through the leather strap around Pavo’s neck to lift the phalera clear of his mail vest. ‘Legio II Parthica?’
‘My father’s legion, sir,’ Pavo barked, straightening up, trying to shrug off his anger.
‘And now just bones in the eastern sands. Slain in Bezabde were they not? Every last one of them?’
Pavo’s teeth ground like a mill, and he struggled to keep his stare straight ahead. His face twisted as he watched Lupicinus rotate his blade on the strap, as if musing as to whether to cut it and take the piece. Pavo tried to stay calm, but rage overcame him and he filled his lungs to shout at the man.
But the breath stayed in his chest as, from behind the riders, one of the comitatenses legionaries gasped; ‘Sir!’
Lupicinus turned on his saddle, pulling his spatha away from Pavo. The legionary had one arm outstretched, pointing across the river.
Pavo turned, following the legionary’s finger. His skin crawled. There, at the far bridgehead, the bush and treeline seemed to be rippling – the classic prelude to a Gothic infantry attack. He thought of the earlier distant Gothic war horn. What if it had not been civil strife after all?
‘Oh, bloody heck!’ Avitus growled as he saw it too and started fumbling with the ballista, the crew of three helping him. Then they stopped when Avitus pushed back with a groan. ‘We’re out of bolts!’
Quadratus turned to Lupicinus. ‘Sir, send a rider to the fort or the training field to summon a fifty, enough to cover the bridgehead!’
Lupicinus looked momentarily rattled, but after a few anxious shuffles on his saddle he licked his lips and glared at Quadratus. ‘I give the orders here, Centurion, and I will be damned to Hades like a coward if I am going to call for help. Now, ready at the bridgehead!’ He waved the group of XI Claudia legionaries and his ten comitatenses forward. At this, Quadratus’ teeth ground like rocks.
Pavo rushed into position, shoulder to shoulder with Avitus and Sura, as they had fought many times before. But, caught cold, they were without shields or spears, having only their spa
thas to fight with. This handful of Roman swords would do well to hold back anything more than a small number of Gothic infantry. The treeline continued to rustle, and the cluster of Romans stood in silence, unblinking, snatching breaths, the roar of the Danubius the only noise around.
‘Shy fellows, these Goths?’ Lupicinus said, finally. ‘Perhaps we should go over there and show them how to launch an attack?’
Quadratus shared a weary look with Pavo, Sura and Avitus on the front line. ‘That’s how they operate, sir – the Gothic chosen archers. You’ll be almost on top of them, think you have the upper hand, then you’ll have a dagger in your neck or an arrow in your back. Best thing we can do is use our position, hold the bridgehead. They won’t come at us if we stay here.’
‘And that is how we gained an empire in the first place, is it? Cowering behind defences and waiting to be attacked?’ Lupicinus retorted. His riders laughed again, but this time their laughter was forced and laced with icy tension. ‘Nonsense! Advance at a slow march across the bridge. You can still hold your precious bridgehead from the far side.’
Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2) Page 3