Legionary: Viper of the North (5 page)

‘Yes, sir!’ Quadratus barked back, masking any sign of humiliation well – quite a feat for the temperamental Gaul.

‘And I’ll have my work cut out, it seems; already I have heard word of a missing wage purse, stolen from within the fort?’ He eyed each of them like culprits.

‘And I’ll expect a full briefing on this activity,’ Lupicinus continued, flicking his head to the giant ballista, ‘for an officer should not be distracted by fanciful engineering. He should be with his men at all times. Inspiring them, encouraging them,’ he leaned forward from the saddle and clenched a fist, ‘
leading
them.’

‘Never a truer word has been spoken, sir,’ Quadratus replied. ‘Indeed, I’ve just spent all morning on the training field with . . . ’

‘You’ll speak when I say you can speak, Centurion!’ Lupicinus barked. ‘And you’ll sort out your armour before you next stand in front of me,’ the comes flicked a finger at Quadratus’ rusting, torn mail vest, bringing a chorus of derisive laughter from Lupicinus’ riders and infantry. ‘You’re a disgrace to your legion, and to your empire!’

Pavo’s chest stung with ire as he saw Quadratus shuffle on the spot, face burning in humiliation and fury. The big Gaul had forgone the last of the fresh sets of armour to allow those travelling north with Tribunus Gallus to have it. And he was being mocked for the gesture. Pavo stared at the comes; this man was no Gallus.

Then, like an asp, Lupicinus’ eyes snapped round to fix on Pavo. ‘You have something to say, soldier? Name and rank?’ He demanded.

Pavo’s stomach fell away and his skin prickled with an icy dread. ‘Legionary Numerius Vitellius Pavo of the XI Claudia, third cohort, first century, sir!’

Lupicinus heeled his mount over to Pavo and looked him up and down, then recoiled with a gasp. ‘You
reek
of ale, soldier. Drunk on duty? Worse than sleeping on watch! You know the punishment for that, don’t you?’

‘Flogging at best, sir, or death,’ Pavo replied flatly as the rest of the XI Claudia legionaries looked on.

‘Aye,’ Lupicinus hissed, ‘and if I learn that you’re the wage thief . . . you know what they used to do to legionaries devoid of honour, do you? They would force them, screaming, into a hemp sack filled with poisonous asps.’ The comes was almost purring. ‘Then hurl the sack into the depths of a river.’

‘Permission to speak, sir!’ Quadratus stepped forward again.

Lupicinus spun to him and flared his nostrils, eyes wide in indignation. ‘Speak.’

‘Pavo was just a moment ago involved in settling a dispute in the town. Drunken locals causing bother. I can vouch for his sobriety.’

‘Oh, can you?’ Lupicinus straightened up in his saddle again and turned to Pavo.

‘And he is a commendable soldier, sir,’ Quadratus continued. ‘Played more than his part in the Bosporus mission. A campaign bloodier than most I can remember. Helped keep this empire in one piece, sir.’

Lupicinus snorted at this. ‘The mission to old Bosporus was a debacle; little more than a cull of half of the border legions.’ He jabbed a finger at each of them. ‘It’s down to you that we’re so stretched now!’ His face split with a malicious grin as his riders and the ten legionaries behind them erupted in belly laughter. Pavo noticed that one towering legionary in particular seemed to be relishing the humiliation. The man had sunken eyes and pitted skin. Pavo glared back at him, feeling his blood boil. Then he froze, feeling a cold blade slip under his chin.

‘What’s this?’ Lupicinus cooed, having hooked his spatha blade through the leather strap around Pavo’s neck to lift the phalera clear of his mail vest. ‘Legio II Parthica?’

‘My father’s legion, sir,’ Pavo barked, straightening up, trying to shrug off his anger.

‘And now just bones in the eastern sands. Slain in Bezabde were they not? Every last one of them?’

Pavo’s teeth ground like a mill, and he struggled to keep his stare straight ahead. His face twisted as he watched Lupicinus rotate his blade on the strap, as if musing as to whether to cut it and take the piece. Pavo tried to stay calm, but rage overcame him and he filled his lungs to shout at the man.

But the breath stayed in his chest as, from behind the riders, one of the comitatenses legionaries gasped; ‘Sir!’

Lupicinus turned on his saddle, pulling his spatha away from Pavo. The legionary had one arm outstretched, pointing across the river.

Pavo turned, following the legionary’s finger. His skin crawled. There, at the far bridgehead, the bush and treeline seemed to be rippling – the classic prelude to a Gothic infantry attack. He thought of the earlier distant Gothic war horn. What if it had not been civil strife after all?

‘Oh, bloody heck!’ Avitus growled as he saw it too and started fumbling with the ballista, the crew of three helping him. Then they stopped when Avitus pushed back with a groan. ‘We’re out of bolts!’

Quadratus turned to Lupicinus. ‘Sir, send a rider to the fort or the training field to summon a fifty, enough to cover the bridgehead!’

Lupicinus looked momentarily rattled, but after a few anxious shuffles on his saddle he licked his lips and glared at Quadratus. ‘I give the orders here, Centurion, and I will be damned to Hades like a coward if I am going to call for help. Now, ready at the bridgehead!’ He waved the group of XI Claudia legionaries and his ten comitatenses forward. At this, Quadratus’ teeth ground like rocks.

Pavo rushed into position, shoulder to shoulder with Avitus and Sura, as they had fought many times before. But, caught cold, they were without shields or spears, having only their spathas to fight with. This handful of Roman swords would do well to hold back anything more than a small number of Gothic infantry. The treeline continued to rustle, and the cluster of Romans stood in silence, unblinking, snatching breaths, the roar of the Danubius the only noise around.

‘Shy fellows, these Goths?’ Lupicinus said, finally. ‘Perhaps we should go over there and show them how to launch an attack?’

Quadratus shared a weary look with Pavo, Sura and Avitus on the front line. ‘That’s how they operate, sir – the Gothic chosen archers. You’ll be almost on top of them, think you have the upper hand, then you’ll have a dagger in your neck or an arrow in your back. Best thing we can do is use our position, hold the bridgehead. They won’t come at us if we stay here.’

‘And that is how we gained an empire in the first place, is it? Cowering behind defences and waiting to be attacked?’ Lupicinus retorted. His riders laughed again, but this time their laughter was forced and laced with icy tension. ‘Nonsense! Advance at a slow march across the bridge. You can still hold your precious bridgehead from the far side.’

Quadratus looked up with a furious expression. ‘Is that an order, sir?’

Lupicinus pursed his lips and gazed into the distance as if shrewdly thinking over the move. ‘Yes, it is. But let’s advance with one of the war heroes at the front. Yes, let’s have the drunk,’ he stabbed a finger at Pavo. ‘Now tell me, why have you been left behind while the better men of your legion are out in enemy territory, eh?’

Pavo searched for an answer. The truth was that he would have been out there too, had it not been for the recent reorganisation of the legion to repopulate the ranks after the Bosporus mission. He had been a proud member of the first cohort, first century. Then, a few months ago, Gallus had insisted that the more experienced legionaries should be seeded through the cohorts as the legion was repopulated with recruits and vexillationes from other legions. Still though, doubt stung at his chest.

‘Perhaps you are not as brave as you would have us think?’ Lupicinus cut in before he could reply. ‘Well come on then, out front, lead us across the bridge.’

Pavo’s blood iced at this. All eyes fell upon him. At least his colleagues in the front line offered their sympathy. In contrast, Lupicinus smirked at his discomfort, as did his riders and legionaries. But Pavo had known this was coming and coming soon. With so many officers killed or called out in vexillationes recently, Pavo, like Sura, was only a few steps from being thrust into leadership. And the thought made him nauseous. His one brief spell of leadership had been swift, when he had assumed control of a rag-tag bunch of legionaries – all of them even younger than him – in the Bosporus mission. But here he was faced with men all older and more grizzled than himself, all surely more qualified to lead.
Mithras
, he thought,
surely Quadratus is the ranking infantry officer here anyway?
His eyes moved to the big Gaul.

But Lupicinus spotted his hesitation and pounced upon it. ‘Ah, a
coward!
’ the comes spat. ‘Unable to act without the guiding hand of another, eh? Never a leader. Just like most of the dross in this so-called legion.’

Pavo bristled. He might not be a leader, but he certainly was no coward. He straightened up, readying to shout the men forward, but Lupicinus cut in.

‘Centurion Quadratus, lead us forward, show the boy how it’s done!’

Quadratus stepped to the fore, his movement disguising a shudder of rage and his face a shade of crimson. Still, the centurion managed to offer a nod of support to Pavo. But Pavo was staring straight ahead, hoping his veneer of steadfast attention would disguise the burning shame inside him. The comes’ words echoed in his head.

Never a leader.

‘Ready, advance!’ Quadratus barked.

As one, the cluster of legionaries stomped forward, the timbers of the makeshift bridge creaking and bucking under their weight, the riders trotting close behind. All eyes were on the treeline. Still it writhed and, as they got closer, it seemed to jostle and judder more violently, as if something was building to a head. But what?

Pavo was almost grateful that his shame was swept away by the nerves that usually preceded a battle or a skirmish. The soldier’s curse, they called it: swollen tongue, dry mouth and full-to-bursting bladder, not helped by the thundering torrents of the Danubius below.

Quadratus raised his sword, readying to stop the column as they reached the north bridgehead when, suddenly, the treeline fell still.

‘What the?’ Sura croaked.

‘Halt.’ Quadratus spoke his order in a muted tone, frowning.

Ready shields!
Pavo screamed in his mind, ears honed for any sound of stretching bowstrings or whizzing arrows, his empty shield arm clenching. A chill wind whistled from upriver, snaking inside Pavo’s armour and clothing. He and each of the infantry glanced back to Lupicinus. The comes had managed to stealthily remain some way back from the Roman front; there he sat on his saddle, his tongue jabbing out to dampen his lips and his eyes darting nervously across the forest in front of them. Even from here, Pavo could see Lupicinus’ cuirass judder from a panicked heartbeat.

‘Orders, sir?’ Quadratus asked. ‘A member of your cavalry might want to stoke those bushes, flush ‘em out?
Show them how to launch an attack?
Or perhaps we should call for reinforcements from the fort?’

Lupicinus scowled at Quadratus’ thinly disguised swipe. ‘Two infantry, advance and scout,’ he replied abruptly.

Quadratus nodded, then made to shout for Avitus to come with him.

But Pavo, still feeling the shame of his reluctance only moments ago, widened his eyes and nodded to the big Gaul.

Quadratus cocked an eyebrow. ‘Fair enough then. Pavo, you’re with me.’

They stalked off the bridge then across the wide dirt path that hemmed the northern bank of the river. Then Quadratus made a forking gesture with two fingers, each pointing round a side of the thicket.

Pavo nodded, buried his fears and set his eyes on the undergrowth. He held his spatha before him, ready to cut through the gorse bush or any Goth that might try to spring upon him.

‘Wait, what’s that?’ Quadratus whispered from a few feet away.

Pavo squinted through into the gorse and saw nothing but a tangle of leaves and branches. Then his skin froze as he saw the outline of . . . something, something in the shade and foliage. It looked like a figure, crouching in the shadows. He blinked, sure it was a trick of the light, but sure enough, there
was
someone there. A man, a huge man.

Pavo filled his lungs to roar, when a shape burst from the gorse, butting into his chest. The wind was gone from his lungs and he tumbled back, instinctively lashing out at the figure. Then, bleating filled the air and his spatha blade stopped only inches from the neck of a panicked goat. A little Gothic boy in a blue tunic ran out after it.