Pavo braced himself, glancing around the archers, waiting on the order to be given. Twenty arrowheads would tear into his unarmoured body. Then, perhaps, he might meet Father in the afterlife.
But Draga extended a finger to Pavo’s chestnut gelding, like a master dismissing a dog. ‘Ride, legionary, go back to your legions. I give you this as our parting gift; one last dawn to make peace with your gods.’
Pavo stumbled backwards, then hauled himself onto the saddle. He heeled the mount round, but his gaze was fixed on Draga, who clenched a fist and sneered;
‘By dusk tomorrow, your army will be carrion and we will tread through your corpses, Traianus’ head mounted on our banner as we march to the south. To Constantinople!’
At this, Ivo lifted his longsword and beat it against his shield, then cried out. As one, the Gothic army roared out in unison.
Pavo’s heart hammered. He heeled his mount into a turn and then a breakneck gallop back to the Roman camp, Draga’s cold laughter ringing in the air behind him.
Avitus swigged his soured and watered wine, eyeing the northern horizon carefully. Then he gazed through the mouth of the skin again.
‘Found anything in there yet, sir?’ The young legionary, Noster, chirped.
Avitus shot him a foul glare. ‘What is it with you? Keep your eyes to the north, and your tongue still.’
At this, Noster dropped his smile and fell into a nervous silence.
Avitus screwed up his eyes and sighed; the time for bitterness was past. He had hoped that perhaps the lad Pavo might not slay the senator tonight. But then the lad had been seen fleeing the camp, leaving a commotion in his wake as the senator’s body was discovered. It seemed any man was capable of dark deeds. ‘Here, have a drink,’ he handed the skin to the youngster. ‘I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’
‘Thanks,’ Noster nodded, then cautiously took a swig. ‘Are you worried about the Goths – that they will come for us tonight?’
Avitus shook his head with a wry grin, his mind once again flitting with images of his past, each one eroding his soul. ‘In these last days, I’ve been more worried that they would not come for us, lad.’ Avitus glanced to the youngster.
Noster’s face wrinkled in confusion.
‘Ach, ignore me and my maudlin talk.’ Avitus accepted the wineskin again. He made to take a swig when something caught his eye, on the ridge to the north. A rider was approaching at speed.
Avitus leaned forward. It was Pavo. Good lad, he thought, you’re doing the right thing. Don’t run from your problems.
But then Avitus noticed an orange glow on the northern horizon, behind Pavo. ‘Dawn comes from the east, does it not?’ he said to Noster, whose gaze was also fixed on the glow.
‘Last time I checked, aye.’ Noster replied, gulping.
Then Avitus heard Pavo’s distant cries, saw his eyes wide with urgency, his brow furrowed, his arms waving. He threw down the wineskin and craned his neck from the watchtower. Now he could hear it, from the north; a distant din of rippling iron and thundering hooves.
Then, as Pavo raced to the north gate, his cries became clear. ‘The Goths are coming!’
Noster fumbled for the buccina and Avitus’ jaw fell open. ‘Pavo! What in Hades did you do out there?’
Buccinas sang urgent notes and at once, the camp was awash with activity as dawn breached the land. Legionaries spilled from their tents, dousing fires, snatching up helmets, armour and weapons. Archers scuttled to the practice range, taking up quivers. Stablehands dropped brushes and buckets and began frantically tying saddles to horses. Mounted officers steered their beasts through the organised chaos, barking orders, rousing their men with words of encouragement.
At the heart of the square of XI Claudia tents, Pavo fumbled to pull on his mail vest over his linen tunic, then wrapped his swordbelt around his waist and pulled on his intercisa helmet. No time for polishing, no time for checking. The Goths were on the march.
‘Pray to Mithras we can intercept them on the plain,’ Sura muttered as he hefted up his shield and spear, rolling his head on his shoulders to loosen the tension in his neck.
Pavo looked to his friend, still bleary-eyed from sleep. ‘Their numbers have swollen since they have been in the mountains,’ he said in a hushed voice, keen not to panic the sea of recruits who readied themselves nearby.
‘Good, I’ve got a bone to pick with these bastards,’ Sura said with a shrug, barely disguising a nervous twitch in his cheek. ‘The more, the better!’
At this, the nearest of the recruits broke out in a nervous chuckle.
Centurion Quadratus strode past, picking up on the mood, Optio Avitus by his side, as always. ‘That’s it, you mutts!’ Quadratus roared. ‘Let’s get every blade ready, every dart in place. I’ve only had you in my ranks for what, weeks? And you’re easily the best bunch of runts I’ve ever led!’
At this, the recruits fell silent, until the belly of one gurgled like a clearing drain.
Quadratus pulled a look of mock indignation. ‘Mithras’ sake, soldier! You’ll get your chance to eat your fill of hardtack when we’re on the march!’ Then he clenched a fist, his bottom lip curling. ‘Then, when we’ve shown the whoresons out there the way to Hades, we’ll be feasting on pheasant and garum dates!’
The recruits erupted in a cheer at this.
Pavo grinned at his centurion as the big Gaul came closer. ‘Glad to be marching with you today, sir.’
Quadratus smoothed his moustache. ‘Aye, I’d be glad to have you with me too. But you’re with Centurion Zosimus today.’
‘Sir?’ Pavo frowned.
‘He asked for you and,’ Quadratus turned to nod at Sura with a hint of a wicked grin, ‘that mental bastard.’
‘Why?’ Sura asked when his scowl had faded.
‘Same as always, we need to seed the centuries with veterans.’
Sura and Pavo looked back blankly.
Quadratus glared at them. ‘That means you two!’
Pavo looked to Sura and Sura gawped back.
Then Pavo hefted his ruby and gold shield and spear in one hand and saluted with the other. ‘May Mithras be with you, sir, out there.’
Then he turned his salute to Avitus as well. For an instant, the pair’s eyes met. He remembered Felicia’s last words. Find the truth, Pavo, I beg of you.
He moved in close to the veteran, readying to ask the question.
But Avitus spoke first. ‘I knew you didn’t have it in you to kill the senator, Pavo. You’re a good lad.’ His words were solemn, almost sorrowful.
‘And that’s why I must ask you this, sir.’ Pavo steeled himself, leaning in to the optio’s ear. ‘I have heard grim rumour that you are . . . were a speculatore. Is it true?’
Avitus’ face fell and his gaze grew distant. Finally, he replied. ‘I’ve waited a long time to speak with someone, Pavo. But first, let today bring what it must. Then we can talk.’
Pavo clasped his forearm to Avitus’, the pair exchanging a firm nod.
With that, they parted, then Pavo followed Sura in a jog through the assembling centuries. All around them, the readied centuries streamed from the north gate of the camp. Outside, they formed up before the rise that led to the plain and Ad Salices, The Town by the Willows. Traianus cantered around them as they spilled from the camp, urging the men to keep a hundred feet between cohorts and to present a wide front.
Then Pavo and Sura heard Zosimus’ gruff commands echo over the clattering of iron and drumming of boots. Just ahead, the big Thracian was barking his century into line, readying to join the exodus.
‘Sir!’ Pavo barked. ‘Reporting for duty.’
Zosimus turned to him, his anvil jaw swelling as he grinned like a torturer receiving new subjects. ‘Ah, about bloody time!’
‘Which rank, sir?’ Sura asked, glancing to the century as it gradually formed into an iron square, walled with ruby and gold shields and roofed with fin-topped intercisa helmets and speartips. But all of the men in
the square bore the raw, fearful expressions of recruits.
‘First rank, you’re heading up the first file.’
Sura raised his eyebrows. ‘But that’s where the tesserarius stands?’
‘Aye, it is – second only to the optio,’ Zosimus replied with a sardonic smile. ‘You’re a clever bugger, aren’t you?’
Sura cast a disbelieving glance to Pavo as he took his place at the front-right of the square. Then he wasted no time in barking his file into a tighter line.
Pavo looked to Zosimus. ‘And me?’
Zosimus’ face was sincere, and he held Pavo’s gaze. ‘Right where you are, Optio. I’ve never replaced Paulus since those whoresons slit his throat in Dardor.’
Pavo’s heart swelled and his skin rippled with pride, disbelief and . . . that old trickle of icy fear. Could he lead these men as Zosimus’ second in command? These men were raw, young, and so much depended on this battle.
‘You’re sure I’m ready, sir?’ He spoke in a whisper, frowning.
Zosimus’ top lip curled in distaste, and he leaned in to Pavo’s ear. ‘Knock that rubbish out of your skull, lad. Do you think I was ready? I nearly soiled my tunic when I was made centurion. Gallus promoted me with one line of advice: lead as you wish to be led. And Gallus has backed your promotion.’
Pavo glanced past the centurion, to the centre of the XI Claudia area, where Gallus stood. The tribunus’ expression was ice cold as he surveyed the readying legion. Then he turned his gaze on Pavo, and gave him the faintest of nods. Pavo’s thoughts swirled. Then he looked into the Zosimus’ eyes. ‘But, sir, when Lupicinus put me at the head of a vexillatio, I struggled . . . ’
Zosimus cut him off, gripping him by the shoulders. ‘Do you know what clinched it – for me and for Gallus?’
Pavo frowned, shaking his head.
‘Crito; when we were in the dell, not long after you had taken down the bridge over the Beli Lom. He went to Gallus and recommended you. Said you were one of the finest men he had ever marched with.’ Zosimus held his stunned gaze for a few heartbeats, then stepped away and roared to the century. ‘Ready to move out!’
Pavo’s skin rippled as he stared into the space Zosimus had stood. Crito; the veteran who had regarded him like an unwashed latrine for so long; the embodiment of his own self-doubt. Something had changed in the man in those last few weeks before he was slain. Perhaps it was the loss of his family at Marcianople; perhaps it was the realisation that they were all in it together at that desperate skirmish at the bridge. Whatever the reason was, this revelation felt like honey in Pavo’s veins. Like sand trickling from a timer, his self-doubt drained away, leaving only pride. The phalera juddered on his chest as his heart hammered.
He turned to the century and filled his lungs, drew his spatha then rapped it on his shield boss.
‘You heard the centurion. Pull together, stand tall, and . . . move out!’
Chapter 24
The early morning heat prickled on Pavo’s skin and the scent of spring honeysuckle and wild rapeseed danced on the warm air. He looked east, across the verdant plain, his gaze hanging on the willow thicket shimmering in the heat haze over there. The town of Ad Salices lay nestled in the lacy shade offered by the trees. For a heartbeat, he could hear only the chirruping cicada song and it felt like an ordinary day, his armour momentarily weightless. Until he saw the trail of discarded belongings scattered outside the deserted village. Until he heard the barking officers and the rippling of iron beside him and all along the Roman lines that hemmed the southern edge of the plain. Until he turned his head forwards again, and beheld the massive Gothic horde that stained the northern end of the plain, their jagged cries and chanting now drowning the cicada song. Until the screech of a vulture split the air, and the sky began to darken with seemingly prescient carrion birds.
Swatting at a persistent mayfly, he eyed the army they were to face. Fritigern’s ranks had swollen to over twenty thousand warriors. To a man, they were hungry for imperial blood, readied under a collection of Chi-Rho standards and the old pagan banners of the sapphire hawk and the emerald boar. And all of them march unwittingly under the banner of the Viper, he grimaced.
Over twelve thousand spearmen formed the tightly-packed Gothic centre. These warriors were tall and broad, blonde locks braided and knotted, weapons readied, eyeing the central party of their leaders eagerly; Fritigern and Ivo, with Draga lurking behind. Absurdly, while most of the Goths wore their red leather armour and conical helmets, many now wore Roman mail and scale vests and intercisa helmets, having plundered the legionary fabricae workhouses across Moesia.
Behind their deep and wide ranks of spearmen, a mass of some three thousand chosen archers lined the rise of the first of the foothills. Their quivers were packed, their fingers flexing in impatience to take advantage of this excellent elevation over the plain. Behind the archers, a thick ring of Gothic wagons plugged the entrance into the foothills and the path into the towering Haemus Mountains. The wagons formed a rudimentary barricade, sheltering the Gothic women, children and elderly, and doubtless a large supply of fresh weapons and armour. Bookending the Gothic ranks were two wings of cavalry, each numbering some two thousand. The front ranks of each wing wore full-face helmets like iron wolves, eyeing their prey across the plain.
‘More’s the better!’ Centurion Zosimus grumbled by his side.
Pavo pulled a wry grin at this, then glanced over his shoulder at his century and then across the Roman lines that stretched out to his right.
The rear of the Roman army was finally settling into formation. Now, five legions – nearly eight thousand men – were readied; the limitanei wore iron-finned intercisa helms and mail shirts over white tunics, and they grappled spears and the ever-trusty spathas. Each of them gripped painted oval shields with three plumbatae clipped onto the inside. The comitatenses were even more finely armoured, wearing glistening scale vests, and additionally equipped with lancea javelins. Each man’s skin was bathed in sweat, fingers flexing on weapons. Some glared at their enemy, chests heaving in fear and battle-lust. Others stood, silent, eyes closed in prayer, trying to block out the incessant Gothic chanting and rapping of weapons on shields.
The legions’ flanks were protected by the Roman cavalry; two compact wedges of cataphractii and two cobbled-together alae of equites and equites sagitarii. Barely two thousand all-told. At the head of the Roman line was a thin screen of skirmishers: a cohort of sagittarii foot archers who wore ruby cloaks, mail shirts over their tunics and helmets with slim iron nose-guards; a few hundred funditores who were already strapping up their wrists and stretching their limbs and their slings; and a cohort of auxilliaries, clutching light javelins, swords and daggers, but unarmoured bar the few who clutched battered shields or helmets. Some eleven thousand men all told were to stand in opposition to the wall of Goths across the plain.
Two comitatenses legions – the IV Italica and the II Armeniaca – formed the Roman centre, while the II Isauria formed the prestigious right wing. Meanwhile, the limitanei of the I Adiutrix formed the inner left. And so it was left to the XI Claudia – each of the three cohorts less than half-strength, patched together with recruits and the tattered remains of the other limitanei legions that had strayed into the Roman camp – to form the far left of the Roman line. This was a position long-held as unlucky and doomed to break if the line was to come under too much pressure. Their job was to refuse the flank and prevent this eventuality at all costs.
And what a soldier to see that job through, Pavo affirmed, glancing a handful of paces to his right. There, Tribunus Gallus stood tall at the head of the XI Claudia. The legion aquilifer stood next to him in nervous silence, clutching the silver eagle standard, the ruby bull banner hanging motionless in the muggy, still air.
Pavo shuffled, rolling his head to double-check his intercisa helmet was firmly secured. Then he readjusted his mail vest, reaffirmed his grip on his shield and spear, then corrected his posture. His linen tunic was slic
k with sweat and still he couldn’t brush away the nagging of his full bladder. He cursed under his breath.
‘Every bloody time, eh?’ Sura grumbled, just behind him, biting his lower lip and jostling on the balls of his feet.
‘Reminds me I’m alive,’ Pavo replied over his shoulder, gruffly. ‘Long may it continue.’
‘Not too long though,’ Sura replied, squinting up at the sun, ‘or we might cook out here.’
‘The Goths need to move first if we are to have any chance,’ Pavo replied, nodding to the far end of the Roman line. ‘He’s biding his time.’
Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2) Page 37