‘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.
‘Rider approaching!’ His friend cried. Then, after a double-take at Pavo’s foul expression, he added; ‘Sir!’
Pavo peered to the west. There, bathed in orange from the rising sun, the town of Durostorum shimmered. From the town a cloaked, hooded rider approached, dirt spraying in its wake. He squinted as the figure neared, then a warm realisation grew in his heart.
Felicia.
Her riding style was unmistakable – it was just as he had taught her and just as he himself had learned in this last year. ‘At ease,’ he called as he heard sword hilts being gripped behind him.
‘Ave,’ she called, reining the grey mare to a stop by the head of the column. Then she lifted down the black hemp hood to reveal milk-white and delicate features, blue eyes and tumbling amber locks.
‘Felicia,’ Pavo said, stepping forward, hoping to obscure his ridiculous grin from the fifty. She looked not only beautiful, but fresh too. All that was missing was a smile. ‘I’ve been to the inn three times in the last week and every time you’ve been elsewhere. Now I find you out here, galloping at dawn near the fort?’
‘You sound like my father,’ she replied dismissively.
Pavo sighed. ‘When will I see you again, properly?’
‘When you return from Gutthiuda, presumably,’ she replied matter-of-factly. Then she slid from her mount and stood close to him, taking his hands. But she was looking over his shoulder, scanning the fifty with a wrinkle on her nose. ‘So . . . the rest of your contubernium – they are not with you?’
He frowned. Why should she care about them? Then he pulled her a little closer. But she continued to avoid his gaze. ‘Felicia, what is this about?’ He asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer. Ever since he had met her, she had flitted between two personalities: one, a vivacious young lady; the other, a driven, distant woman, far older than her other self. At first he had been confused by her changes in mood. Then he had noticed that these changes came about whenever there was mention of her older brother, Curtius, who used to serve in the ranks of the Claudia. Curtius had died in service and his death was shrouded in mystery and rumour. Pavo could have well understood her sorrow, but not the determination and steel that seemed to overcome her when the subject was raised.
She looked to him. ‘Pavo,’ she smiled, but it was a cheerless smile, ‘when we talk again, I hope all of this will be over.’ With that, she pressed her lips to his.
Pavo felt her tears blot against his cheek, but when he opened his eyes, she had already pulled away to her mare. Then she hoisted herself into the saddle, heeled the mount and cried; ‘Ya!’ With that, she was a hooded rider again shrinking as she galloped back to Durostorum. Pavo’s eyes hung on her wake, his thoughts spinning.
‘Er . . . Pavo?’ Sura whispered beside him.
Pavo blinked, then spun to the fifty. The veterans wore filthy scowls on their faces. Tarquitius examined his fingernails and over-officiously cleared his throat.
‘Bollocking us for formation while he stops to chat with a bit of pussy,’ one veteran grumbled, nudging Crito with his elbow. But the sunken-eyed legionary simply glared at Pavo, then offered a trademark sneer when Pavo tried to hold eye contact.
At this, Pavo’s neck burned. He gulped to find composure and stabbed out his tongue to moisten his lips. The grumbling of the veterans grew, some relaxing out of marching posture and formation, shaking their heads. Sura’s brow was knitted in concern and Pavo was sure at that moment that the best thing would be to hand command over to his friend. But then, Salvian the ambassador looked at him, his expression sincere, and then he gave Pavo the faintest of nods, a hint of a smile touching one edge of his mouth.
It was nothing and everything, a drop of encouragement into his pool of despair. He squared his shoulders, pushed his chest out, steeled his expression and sucked in a lungful of air.
‘Did I give you permission to fall out? Get back into formation!’ He roared.
The men hesitated for a moment, and Pavo’s heart seemed to freeze. But, at last, they tightened up into marching formation, though still grumbling. He spun round to face front and, knowing they could no longer see his face, exhaled in utter relief.
Then they set off, boots drumming on the timbers of the pontoon bridge. He noticed that Salvian had rode level with him and he offered the ambassador a brisk nod of thanks.
Fifty two men, he mused, glancing to Sura and Salvian, and only two would piss in my mouth if my teeth were on fire.
Chapter 3
Over central Gutthiuda, the sky was an unbroken blue, the land was speckled silver with frost, and the tang of woodsmoke and roasting boar spiced the air. Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Felix crouched in the tall grass by a small spruce thicket, examining the nearby Gothic farming settlement. The settlement consisted of a cluster of thatch-roofed stallhouses and a barn, where Gothic families tended to their chickens and goats. All this was set before the backdrop of the grey-black, jagged basalt peaks of the Carpates Mountains, rising from the end of the plain like fangs to mark the edge of Fritigern’s territory and the start of Athanaric’s dominion, the dark side of Gutthiuda.
Gallus scoured the land around the settlement, his breath clouding before him, h
is gaunt features drawn and his ice-blue eyes narrowing on every hint of movement. One hand rested on his plumed intercisa, by his side, and he ran the fingers of the other through his dark, grey-flecked peak of hair before reaching down to thumb the small, wooden idol of Mithras in his purse. Silently, he prayed to the god of the legions for two things; glory and death. To lead his men well and meet an honourable end would be perfect. For only death could reunite him with her. Olivia.
‘Sir?’ Felix nudged him, pointing to the north.
Gallus blinked, angry with himself for allowing dark emotion to cloud his thoughts. He turned to his primus pilus; the little Greek stroked his forked beard and screwed up his eyes as the tall grass across the plain rippled briefly. Then a lone rider burst onto the plain.
The pair tensed, readying to run for their mounts, tethered in the trees nearby. Then Gallus held up a hand as he realised it was just a farm boy. ‘No, it’s not them.’
Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2) Page 5