Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2)

by Doherty, Gordon

  ‘Smooth talker, that one,’ Sura shrugged, then grinned. ‘Just hope he’s not after your arse.’

  Pavo chuckled despite himself at this. ‘You’ve got a way with words yourself, haven’t you?’

  ‘Finest orator in Adrianople,’ Sura replied, bemused. ‘I was a herald for a couple of weeks you know, had to carry and read messages to the garrison.’ Then he frowned, shaking his head. ‘Then they let me go – all because of one spilt skin of wine . . . and a hundred ruined scrolls.’

  Pavo chuckled and then looked his friend in the eye. ‘I’m glad they did; for now I have you by my side, out here.’

  Sura made to reply, then simply slapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Always,’ he grinned, then turned to rouse the rest of the legionaries into the chorus of Crito’s song.

  They marched on until the tink-tink of a hammer striking a nail drew their gaze to one Gothic farmstead: a flame-haired man worked with his boys to erect a fencepost near their thatch-roofed stallhouse, the bleating goats and sheep nearby watching on.

  After a while though, the land grew more barren, the settlements thinned and the sky dulled as grey cloud gathered. Pavo examined the trail up ahead. It wound through the patchy grass and then seemed to disappear into a drop in the land between two rocky rises, pricked with decaying tree stumps.

  And there were jagged, spindly shapes fixed to the stumps.

  Pavo squinted to see what the shapes were, then his face stiffened when he saw them; skeletons, arms splayed wide, nailed to the trunks, the skulls etched with lifeless grins. Gothic warriors, he realised, judging by the rotting, rusting garb that clung to their bones. These would be either sacrifices to Wodin or warnings from Fritigern and Athanaric to any warrior who dared to cross into opposing territory. He realised that the legionary song had fallen into silence.

  ‘Wodinscomba?’ Sura asked, his voice tight.

  ‘Aye,’ Pavo replied, eyes fixed on the skeletons.

  Then something moved, up by one of the rotting trunks; his heart leapt and the fifty behind him rippled in alarm. But then he saw the glinting intercisa helmet and mail shirt the figure wore. At that moment, another such figure climbed up onto the other side of the hollow, waving. Pavo’s heart soared at the sight of the two legionaries. ‘Up ahead, lads; Tribunus Gallus and his men are waiting on us.’

  At this, the recruits of the fifty roared in relief and approval and even some of Crito’s cronies joined in despite themselves. Pavo could not suppress a chuckle as one of them tried to disguise his cries by breaking down in a coughing fit.

  The trail became ever more strewn with rubble as they descended between the two rocky rises and into the hollow. He turned to Sura. ‘Make sure the lads at the back are in good formation – I don’t think they’d appreciate a bollocking from Gallus.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sura replied, dropping back, ‘leave it with me’.

  Then, as Sura barked to the legionaries, another voice spoke beside him. ‘You’re getting the hang of this,’ Salvian said, ‘and enjoying it, going by the look on your face?’

  Pavo disguised his smile. ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt it’s only temporary. I might not be smiling when faced with a thousand spears at Istrita,’ he said.

  Salvian laughed. ‘The veneer of the officer; you’re learning fast, Pavo.’

  Pavo offered him a sincere nod, then smiled.

  ‘And don’t let any setbacks knock your self-belief, lad,’ Salvian continued, his voice quieter now so only Pavo could hear. ‘Remember that you’ve got what it takes. Lupicinus put you out here because he thinks you will fail, and he wants you to prove him right. Do you know why?’

  Pavo sighed. ‘Because he hates me?’

  Salvian shook his head. ‘He doesn’t even know you, lad. No, it’s because he hates himself. He knows he would fail were he out here as a young lad at the head of a group of grizzled veterans. I may not be a man of the sword, but I have heard much of the empire’s commanders at the many feasts and talks I have attended. Lupicinus’ early military record is not one to be proud of; he turned tail and fled from the battlefield in his first encounter with the Goths. Then there were tales of how he would use his men as human shields, sending cohorts to their deaths to save his own skin. Nothing was ever proven, of course. But you have seen the bullying veneer he employs today, and that is now his shield. I don’t know what made him this way, Pavo, but something in his youth must have pickled his soul in vinegar and skewed his motives.’

  Pavo looked up at the ambassador. He nodded, then faced forward again, acutely aware of an odd feeling in his gut; pity for Lupicinus.

  Salvian sighed. ‘Anyway, talking of such characters, I’d better fall back to ride alongside my mentor.’

  Pavo nodded in appreciation. ‘You’re a good man, ambassador. I hope we meet again. But be careful around the senator; for all his bumbling and blabbering, he’s a snake.’

  Salvian’s features remained sincere. ‘One of many, lad, one of many.’ With that, he pulled on his mount’s reins and fell back to the rear of the column.

  Pavo was alone at the front again, and he allowed himself to smile once more. One more precious good friend in this world, he thought. Then a cry from a familiar voice split the air. ‘Ave!’

  Pavo glanced up; the hollow was littered with familiar faces from the XI Claudia. The mail vested legionaries were sitting on the inner slopes of the hollow. They had downed their helmets, spears and shields and were hungrily devouring hardtack, salted beef and cheese. One the size of a bull strode forward, a crooked grin etched between his anvil of a jaw and his squashed nose.

  ‘Mithras! We must be down to the bare bones if they sent you out,’ Zosimus jibed then thrust out an arm.

  Pavo clasped his hand to the big man’s forearm. ‘Some could say they sent us to save your skins,’ he joked back.

  ‘You’d have trouble wiping your own arse, soldier,’ another voice called out. Felix, the fork-bearded Primus Pilus cast a stern gaze on Pavo, then flashed a wicked grin.

  Then the pair stood to one side to reveal Tribunus Gallus.

  Pavo didn’t even consider holding out an arm, instead he stamped both feet into the rocky ground and threw a hand up in salute. ‘Vexillatio reporting as per rendezvous instructions, sir!’

  He stared just past the shoulder of Gallus, but could sense the gaunt and wolf-like features examining him and his fifty. It was a look he had so often mistaken for hatred in his early days as a recruit, but had come to realise that it was just the man’s way. Gallus didn’t do banter, didn’t deal in emotions. A good heart lay inside, but he was pure iron on the outside.

  ‘Legionary,’ Gallus said, eyeing the fifty in Pavo’s wake, ‘or should I call you . . . Optio, or Centurion?’

  ‘Legionary will do just fine, sir, this is just an informal vexillatio. As you have probably guessed, we’re more stretched than ever at the fort.’

  ‘Then you’ll do well to make haste back there as soon as you’ve dropped off this ambassadorial party . . . ’ Gallus’ words slowed as he looked over Pavo’s shoulder, eyeing the two figures on horseback, ambling in with the rest of Pavo’s column. ‘In the name of Mithras, no! Tarquitius?’

  Pavo could only nod. ‘It came as quite a shock to me too, sir, I can tell you.’

  ‘We meet again, Gallus,’ Tarquitius spoke with his usual cloying tone.

  ‘All too soon,’ Gallus muttered in reply.

  ‘Pardon?’ Tarquitius said, frowning.

  ‘And not a moment too soon!’ Gallus spoke clearly this time. Then he turned to behold Salvian, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. ‘And you are?’

  Pavo knew that look – the same look Gallus had cast at him on their first meeting, nearly a year ago, when Pavo lay in the fort jail. The gaze reeked of mistrust and seemed to scour deep into its recipient’s soul. Pavo wished at that moment he could tell Gallus of Salvian’s good heart and nature, but knew that any trust from Gallus had to be earned. Hard-earned.

  Tarquitius cut in b
efore Salvian could reply. ‘Ambassador Salvian has been schooled by the finest minds in the capital, trained in the arts of rhetoric, philosophy and diplomacy. Now he approaches the completion of his training, under my tutelage.’

  ‘Unlucky bastard!’ Pavo heard Zosimus mutter under his breath. At this, Tarquitius shot the big centurion an icy glare. But, before anyone else could speak, Salvian slipped from his saddle to stand before Gallus.

  ‘Tribunus Gallus,’ he saluted, ‘Ambassador Salvian. The sight of your column here warms my heart. I was wary that the rider may not have been able to find you out here in these vast plains and hills.’

  Pavo watched as Gallus scrutinised Salvian’s sincere expression and basic garb. The tribunus’ expression softened for a heartbeat, then grew stern once more. ‘The rider was frozen and bleeding,’ Gallus said, ‘he rode like a centaur to find us; you should have more faith, Ambassador. Equally, I knew the men of my legion would escort you to us safely.’

  Salvian nodded sincerely. ‘They marched well because they were led well.’

  Pavo’s chest bristled with pride, and it was all he could do not to show it.

  ‘Aye,’ Gallus mused, rubbing his chin as he beheld Salvian, ‘a master of rhetoric indeed . . . ’

  Salvian leaned a little closer to Gallus and issued a half-mouthed grin, nodding almost imperceptibly towards the senator. ‘Those are his words, not mine. I value some of the teachings of my grandmother more highly than the endlessly-flowing verbal effluent of the pompous togas in the capital.’

  Pavo watched as Gallus’ gaze remained flinty. Then, for a heartbeat, the tribunus’ lips twisted up at the edges into a faint smile. It had taken Pavo the best part of six months to elicit such a response from the man.

  ‘What was that?’ Tarquitius squawked, leaning forward in his saddle.

  ‘Right!’ Gallus shouted, pretending not to hear the senator. ‘There is a Gothic Iudex to be calmed, not half a days’ march from here. We march immediately. Then Pavo and his men need to make haste back to the fort.’ He spun to Pavo and Sura. ‘But be on your guard, for rebel riders are roaming these lands.’

  Words of correction spilled into Pavo’s throat, but he caught them just in time – experience had taught him it was folly to talk over an officer, especially this one. Then, as the two hundred and forty legionaries formed up into a marching column, aided by Felix’s bellowing orders, Pavo sidled up to Gallus.

  ‘Sir, we’re not going back to the fort.’ He said as the tribunus made to mount his fawn stallion.

  Gallus froze, one arm across the saddle. ‘Tell me this is a joke, soldier.’

  Pavo forced himself to maintain eye contact with the Tribunus. ‘I wish it was, sir. It’s another disturbance, north of here, around the mountains. Istrita.’

  ‘Rebels?’

  ‘Aye. Quadratus was adamant that we should follow your advisory orders and bed in until we had more available manpower, but . . . ’

  Gallus held up a hand to stop him. ‘But Lupicinus knew better.’

  Pavo nodded.

  Gallus shook his head, his gaze tracing the frosted rubble underfoot. Then he looked to Pavo, his ice-blue stare intense. ‘All these vexillationes out here, scattered and far from home.’ He looked up, across the horizon. ‘Go to the village, sort out the mess there, and then get back to the fort, Pavo. But by Mithras do it fast. For I fear there is a snake in the grass, and out here,’ his expression darkened as he scanned the plain behind Pavo, ‘we are in its sights.’

  Chapter 5

  Gallus squinted ahead and gritted his teeth once more as he beheld the bald-headed, wobbling mass that was Senator Tarquitius, wrapped in a dark-blue cloak over his senatorial toga and sat on some poor bastard of a stallion.

  ‘Comes with his own insulation, that one, eh, sir?’ Felix whispered from his side.

  ‘Aye, and his own horseshit,’ Gallus nodded. ‘It galls me to say it, but he is going to be the difference between war and peace with Athanaric.’

  ‘Then Mithras help us,’ Felix replied solemnly.

  They fell silent as they approached the base of the Carpates. A rocky corridor led through the mountains, right into Athanaric’s heartland. A pair of Gothic spearman stood on the outcrops above, one on each side of the pass. They were dressed in red leather cuirasses and woollen breeches and carried longswords and round wooden shields. They sported long blonde locks tied into the distinctive topknots favoured by their military. The pair glared down on the approaching column and the silence was broken only by a stiff, whistling wind.

  ‘Friendly bastards, eh?’ Felix whispered.

  ‘I expected nothing less,’ Gallus replied, flicking his gaze briefly up to the sky, now blemished with gathering grey clouds. Then he raised a hand. As one, the column stopped, the mounted figures of Zosimus, Felix, Tarquitius and Salvian flanking him.

  ‘Ave!’ Gallus called firmly but without warmth. The Gothic sentries did not reply. ‘I am Tribunus Gallus of Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis. I have escorted an ambassadorial party here to speak with noble Iudex Athanaric, he has been expecting such a meeting for some months.’

  The sentries looked at one another, then glared back down. One of them nodded and swept a finger across the five on horseback. ‘You may ride through.’ Then he squared his shoulders. ‘But the rest of your soldiers can go no further.’

  Gallus gripped the reins of his stallion until his knuckles turned white. The land ahead was doubtless garrisoned with thousands of Athanaric’s finest cavalry and infantry, yet he was being stripped of his handful of men like some untrustworthy brigand. This whole sortie was getting so one-sided it was almost a taunt.

  ‘Don’t give them the excuse,’ Salvian whispered by his side. ‘I can see it in his eyes, he wants you to react.’

  Gallus turned to the ambassador, his teeth gritted, then felt his rage dissipate just a fraction; Salvian seemed a good judge of character and intention.

  The colour returned to his knuckles and, reluctantly, he turned to Zosimus. ‘Lead the centuries southeast, back to Fritigern’s territory, then make camp there. A good, solid marching camp,’ he nodded firmly, ‘and we’ll be back to lead you home by sunrise in two days’ time.’

  The grinding of Zosimus’ teeth was audible over the wind.

  Gallus looked to the centurion. The big man was utterly fearless, and the promise of riding into Athanaric’s lair thrilled Zosimus as much as it terrified the others. And that was just why Gallus trusted him implicitly. ‘I’d rather have you by my side through there,’ he nodded to the pass, ‘but I need you to lead these men until we return.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Zosimus relented. ‘We’ve got your back covered, sir. But I want one of my best men with you,’ the big centurion replied with a sparkle in his eyes, then slipped from his mount and handed the reins to his optio, Paulus. ‘Defend these men with your life, Paulus.’ With that, the big Thracian swaggered back past the column, barking orders. Then the aquilifer raised the legion standard and the legionaries snaked round behind him to head back down the trail with a rumble of boots, shields and iron.

  Gallus twisted back to face the mountains and the Gothic sentries.

  ‘Now you may pass,’ one sentry spoke. With that, he lifted a horn to his lips and blew, conjuring a baritone moan that echoed through the pass and all around.

  The five riders moved into the pass at a gentle trot. Paulus brought up the rear, one hand on his spatha hilt and his eyes trained on the crevices and boulders lining the walls of the rocky corridor. The basalt-grey passage wove through the mountains for some quarter of a mile in front of them, but they could see the frost-dappled green of a plain at the far end. The clopping of their mounts’ hooves on frozen ground echoed in the corridor as if a full cavalry wing followed them. But the stark truth was that five men of Rome were riding into the Gothic heartland alone.

  ‘I feel like we’ve been stripped of our swords, shields and armour,’ Felix muttered.

  ‘That’s not all,�
� Gallus replied through taut lips, staring straight ahead. ‘Listen. Don’t look up, just listen.’

  Felix frowned. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yes, in the gaps between the clopping of hooves,’ Salvian joined in, nodding to Gallus, ‘can you hear it too?’

  Felix’s eyes darted across the ground in front of him as he concentrated, then his face fell. Every so often, the juddering vibration of tensing bowstrings sounded.

  ‘They’ve probably got a hundred chosen archers up there, arrows trained on our necks. We’re walking through a perfect kill zone.’

  ‘But why?’ Felix hissed. ‘We’re on a peace mission?’

  Gallus shook his head wryly. ‘We’re at the mercy of Athanaric’s whims now, and he’s a capricious whoreson.’

  ‘What are you muttering about?’ Tarquitius cut in, his high-pitched warbling filling the pass and startling the others.