Legionary: Viper of the North (13 page)

Pavo heard Crito strike up a song in praise of Mithras as they pushed through the grass, then two others joined in. There had been something of a lift in the mood of his fifty, a sense of unity. Perhaps it was down to breaking free of the oppressive forest and having a clear vista in every direction for miles, he mused. Then his gaze fell upon the black-grey jagged peaks of the Carpates, lining the horizon to the west; perhaps it was to disguise anxiety. Regardless, it was a blessed relief from the earlier part of the march.

‘What’s got into them?’ Sura asked, nodding to the singing veterans, keeping his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen Crito crack a smile.’

Pavo nodded, glancing back to see the veteran’s cheeks reddening as he belted out the words to the song with gusto.

‘You reckon we can rely on him, if there’s trouble in Istrita?’ Sura asked. ‘He’s got a reputation as a fine soldier, but . . . ’ His words trailed off as he sucked in a breath through his teeth and shook his head.

Pavo made to reply with his misgivings about the older legionary, then he saw Salvian had drawn level on his mount and was listening in. The ambassador didn’t say anything, but he gave Pavo a knowing look, and Pavo couldn’t help but smile as he remembered their chats over the last few nights. ‘I suppose you have to credit Crito for having served under Lupicinus for Mithras knows how many years without wringing the man’s neck. Aye, the man has his flaws, but we all have, eh?’

Sura cocked an eyebrow, then grinned as Salvian dropped back a little. ‘I see the ambassador has been filling your head with the one-liners.’

‘It’s nothing. He’s just trying to help, to give me a bit of encouragement.’

‘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 before 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.’