Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2)

by Doherty, Gordon

  ‘And then there’s Zosimus . . . ’ Felix sighed, grinning at Gallus. ‘Sir?’

  But Gallus’ attention was elsewhere; the sentries by the gateposts were calling down for the gates to be opened. He stood and walked towards the main gate. A rider entered then dismounted and stumbled through the eating legionaries. He came to Gallus, panting, then gulped a breath in and saluted.

  ‘Quintus Livius Ennius, of the Cursus Publicus. I bring a message for Tribunus Gallus from,’ he took in more air and held out the scroll in a trembling grasp, ‘Comes Lupicinus of the XI Claudia.’

  At this, the seated legionaries issued a harmonised groan.

  Gallus did not react, other than to raise one eyebrow. ‘By Mithras, Ennius, that is a double blow. Comes Lupicinus is bad enough, but Comes Lupicinus of the XI Claudia?’ He took the scroll and snapped the wax seal. Unfurling it, he noticed all eyes were upon him.

  ‘Get this lad some porridge, then break camp and be ready to march before the sun’s fully up!’ He barked. The men of the vexillatio slunk away to begin disassembling the tents.

  Gallus’ eyes then darted across the scrawl on the paper.

  . . . the parley with Athanaric will take place imminently and takes priority over all activity in Fritigern’s lands. Proceed to Wodinscomba, then wait. An ambassadorial party and a legionary escort have been despatched to that location to meet you there . . .

  Gallus frowned; the hollow at Wodinscomba demarcated the end of Fritigern’s territory and the start of Athanaric’s, and was certainly not a place any Roman would want to linger. He looked up at Ennius, brow furrowed. ‘When was this order given?’

  ‘Three days ago, sir,’ Ennius panted through blue lips and a mouthful of porridge.

  ‘And the escort?’ Gallus frowned.

  Ennius shook his head. ‘A vexillatio levied from the XI Claudia, sir.’

  Gallus punched a fist into his palm. ‘Mithras!’ He spat. So another vexillatio had been gouged from the already husk-like legion. As a soldier, this concerned him. As a man, it felt as though his home was being looted in his absence, and it irked him to think of Lupicinus assuming command of the place so readily.

  Ennius looked momentarily startled.

  ‘At ease, rider, my ire is not directed at you,’ Gallus said. He gazed southeast to the dark forest, issuing a prayer to Mithras for the vexillatio that was to march from the safety of the empire and into this gods-forsaken land.

  Chapter 4

  The marching camp was enshrouded in three layers; darkness, freezing fog and then thick forest. Sitting on a log in the centre of the small enclosure, Senator Tarquitius hogged one side of the newly kindled fire. He watched as the legionaries put the finishing touches to the camp, staking their tents to the ground and battering the palisade perimeter into place.

  He sighed, his belly groaning as he looked again to his prime cut of goat meat sizzling in the flames. ‘Come on, come on!’ He muttered and then looked up furtively, anxious that one of the legionaries might catch sight of his ample rations. But what if they do? They are just dice in my hands, he reminded himself with a grin. Then his eyes settled on Pavo, their so-called leader. And this one is a weighted die indeed, he mused as he eyed his ex-slave, stood alone and silent, examining the fortifications while the rest of the legionaries bantered. He pulled the meat from the flames and sunk his teeth into the tender flesh, juices rolling down his chins. Yes, this boy is becoming a valuable asset indeed; he just needs to be harnessed. His eyes fell upon the bronze phalera hanging around Pavo’s neck. The piece had been given to the boy, years ago, when Tarquitius had bought him at the slave market. A withered crone had pushed the piece into Pavo’s hand and then turned to Tarquitius to hiss a scathing diatribe in his ear. It had chilled him to his core, but in her words lay a sparkling gem, a precious nugget of information that would once again have Pavo in the palm of his hand. He grinned. Yes, perhaps it is time . . .

  ‘Your mind is working at all times!’ A voice chirped.

  Tarquitius bit his tongue, yelped and then looked up to see Salvian smiling back at him – that same open, altruistic expression and half-mouthed grin that he had tolerated for the last six months. He barely disguised a grumble of discontent as he shuffled along to allow his protégé to sit. ‘I muse while I sleep, I consider when I am awake,’ Tarquitius said, then leaned in towards his protégé, wiping the meat juices from his chin with the back of his hand, eyes wide, ‘and at all times, I am leagues ahead of my opponent.’

  Salvian nodded and his eyes darted as if a great truth had been revealed to him.

  Tarquitius barely suppressed a snort; this man had been through the academies of Constantinople and had learned from the finest thinkers, philosophers and strategists. Yes, he was clever, Tarquitius thought, but his mind was almost too sponge-like, so easily impressionable, lacking that vital spark. You simply can’t teach cunning, he smirked. Regardless, Salvian would make ideal lapdog in the political world, to go alongside a military puppet like Pavo. Again he grinned.

  No, the gift of cunning was only for a worthy few, he asserted. It was just such a trait that had seen Tarquitius rise through the political echelons. That rise had not been without setback and loss of face, he shuddered, remembering the dark dalliance with the Holy See that had spiralled out of control. But, as ever, he had proved indomitable until now, when he was deemed the best-placed official to face the mighty Athanaric himself. Well, he mused, he had at least shown shrewdness and temerity in bribing Dux Vergilius and buying his place on this mission.

  ‘When we travel west, to Dardarus,’ Salvian said, carving slices from an apple with his dagger, ‘what approach should we take with our Gothic counterparts?’

  Tarquitius frowned, his mouth agape, stringy meat dangling from his teeth. Was he being questioned by this upstart? ‘We take the approach that I see fit, Ambassador. You watch and learn, and you will be wiser for it.’

  Salvian nodded slowly at this. ‘And I value the opportunity, Senator. If there is anything I can contribute – perhaps a counter-proposal that seems to play into Athanaric’s favour, something to move things along – then I’d be happy to rehearse this with you?’

  Tarquitius’ eyes narrowed. Damn, that sounds good. ‘Perhaps, Salvian, perhaps. It is not the most sophisticated approach, but I’ll keep it in mind – as a last resort,’ he said and then sunk his teeth into his goat meat once more.

  Salvian nodded graciously and then stood to leave the fire. Tarquitius watched him go, then turned back to look into the flames. His face grew red from the heat as he gorged on the goat meat and considered what was to come. The talks with Athanaric were what they were and no more. A façade shrouding the plan he and the Gothic Iudex had concocted. Power could be gained readily in times of crisis, and he had lived from meagre rations for too long.

  It was time to spawn a crisis that would be remembered for a long, long time.

  Pavo shivered, once more scrutinising the wooden stakes, ditch and rampart of the marching camp. Then he glanced out into the frozen night; anything could be out there, he thought, screwing up his eyes, struggling to see more than a few paces beyond the perimeter. Housing only his fifty men, the camp was a miniature of the more defensible counterpart that would be constructed by cohorts and full legions. So it wasn’t strictly a marching camp; yes it would give them precious time should they come under attack, but was it acceptable? Again he agonised over whether it would be right to insist that the legionaries – tired, hungry and frozen after the third day of marching – should reconstruct the west-facing side. Then again, he mused, why not? It would be difficult to further sour the relationship he had with these soldiers.

  ‘You have done well for yourself, boy,’ a voice spoke, startling him.

  Pavo spun round to see the portly figure of Tarquitius, wrapped in a blue woollen cloak, his eyes wide and keen.

  ‘From a slave to, what, a centurion, in just a year?’

  ‘I’m no officer,’ Pavo replied
guardedly; the Senator had witnessed the blatant lack of respect Crito and his cronies had shown Pavo throughout the march so far. ‘I’m in charge of this vexillatio, but without official rank.’

  ‘So the legions are bare, then?’ The Senator’s eyes narrowed and he craned in closer. ‘The recruits that are coming in, they cannot backfill the shortage of manpower being sent out into these lands?’

  Pavo balked at the stench of the man’s breath. ‘You saw the fort, the few who line its battlements, the handful at the bridgehead. Supporting this truce with Fritigern is proving as corrosive as warring with any openly hostile neighbour.’

  ‘But how many more are to be levied from the Moesian farmlands – do you know?’

  Pavo hesitated; a senator with an interest in military matters was not unusual, but this particular senator had a black history of dabbling in politics that spanned across the borders. There were no new levies scheduled before the spring, but he bit back on this knowledge and shrugged. ‘I’m just a legionary,’ he replied flatly.

  ‘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 t
ime 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.