Legionary: Viper of the North (8 page)

‘Rider approaching!’ His friend cried. Then, after a double-take at Pavo’s foul expression, he added; ‘Sir!’

Pavo peered to the west. There, bathed in orange from the rising sun, the town of Durostorum shimmered. From the town a cloaked, hooded rider approached, dirt spraying in its wake. He squinted as the figure neared, then a warm realisation grew in his heart.

Felicia
.

Her riding style was unmistakable – it was just as he had taught her and just as he himself had learned in this last year. ‘At ease,’ he called as he heard sword hilts being gripped behind him.

‘Ave,’ she called, reining the grey mare to a stop by the head of the column. Then she lifted down the black hemp hood to reveal milk-white and delicate features, blue eyes and tumbling amber locks.

‘Felicia,’ Pavo said, stepping forward, hoping to obscure his ridiculous grin from the fifty. She looked not only beautiful, but fresh too. All that was missing was a smile. ‘I’ve been to the inn three times in the last week and every time you’ve been elsewhere. Now I find you out here, galloping at dawn near the fort?’

‘You sound like my father,’ she replied dismissively.

Pavo sighed. ‘When will I see you again, properly?’

‘When you return from Gutthiuda, presumably,’ she replied matter-of-factly. Then she slid from her mount and stood close to him, taking his hands. But she was looking over his shoulder, scanning the fifty with a wrinkle on her nose. ‘So . . . the rest of your contubernium – they are not with you?’

He frowned. Why should she care about them? Then he pulled her a little closer. But she continued to avoid his gaze. ‘Felicia, what is this about?’ He asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer. Ever since he had met her, she had flitted between two personalities: one, a vivacious young lady; the other, a driven, distant woman, far older than her other self. At first he had been confused by her changes in mood. Then he had noticed that these changes came about whenever there was mention of her older brother, Curtius, who used to serve in the ranks of the Claudia. Curtius had died in service and his death was shrouded in mystery and rumour. Pavo could have well understood her sorrow, but not the determination and steel that seemed to overcome her when the subject was raised.

She looked to him. ‘Pavo,’ she smiled, but it was a cheerless smile, ‘when we talk again, I hope all of this will be over.’ With that, she pressed her lips to his.

Pavo felt her tears blot against his cheek, but when he opened his eyes, she had already pulled away to her mare. Then she hoisted herself into the saddle, heeled the mount and cried; ‘Ya!’ With that, she was a hooded rider again shrinking as she galloped back to Durostorum. Pavo’s eyes hung on her wake, his thoughts spinning.

‘Er . . . Pavo?’ Sura whispered beside him.

Pavo blinked, then spun to the fifty. The veterans wore filthy scowls on their faces. Tarquitius examined his fingernails and over-officiously cleared his throat.

‘Bollocking us for formation while he stops to chat with a bit of pussy,’ one veteran grumbled, nudging Crito with his elbow. But the sunken-eyed legionary simply glared at Pavo, then offered a trademark sneer when Pavo tried to hold eye contact.

At this, Pavo’s neck burned. He gulped to find composure and stabbed out his tongue to moisten his lips. The grumbling of the veterans grew, some relaxing out of marching posture and formation, shaking their heads. Sura’s brow was knitted in concern and Pavo was sure at that moment that the best thing would be to hand command over to his friend. But then, Salvian the ambassador looked at him, his expression sincere, and then he gave Pavo the faintest of nods, a hint of a smile touching one edge of his mouth.

It was nothing and everything, a drop of encouragement into his pool of despair. He squared his shoulders, pushed his chest out, steeled his expression and sucked in a lungful of air.

‘Did I give you permission to fall out? Get back into formation!’ He roared.

The men hesitated for a moment, and Pavo’s heart seemed to freeze. But, at last, they tightened up into marching formation, though still grumbling. He spun round to face front and, knowing they could no longer see his face, exhaled in utter relief.

Then they set off, boots drumming on the timbers of the pontoon bridge. He noticed that Salvian had rode level with him and he offered the ambassador a brisk nod of thanks.

Fifty two men,
he mused, glancing to Sura and Salvian,
and only two would piss in my mouth if my teeth were on fire.

Chapter 3

Over central Gutthiuda, the sky was an unbroken blue, the land was speckled silver with frost, and the tang of woodsmoke and roasting boar spiced the air. Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Felix crouched in the tall grass by a small spruce thicket, examining the nearby Gothic farming settlement. The settlement consisted of a cluster of thatch-roofed stallhouses and a barn, where Gothic families tended to their chickens and goats. All this was set before the backdrop of the grey-black, jagged basalt peaks of the Carpates Mountains, rising from the end of the plain like fangs to mark the edge of Fritigern’s territory and the start of Athanaric’s dominion, the dark side of Gutthiuda.

Gallus scoured the land around the settlement, his breath clouding before him, his gaunt features drawn and his ice-blue eyes narrowing on every hint of movement. One hand rested on his plumed intercisa, by his side, and he ran the fingers of the other through his dark, grey-flecked peak of hair before reaching down to thumb the small, wooden idol of Mithras in his purse. Silently, he prayed to the god of the legions for two things; glory and death. To lead his men well and meet an honourable end would be perfect. For only death could reunite him with her.
Olivia.

‘Sir?’ Felix nudged him, pointing to the north.

Gallus blinked, angry with himself for allowing dark emotion to cloud his thoughts. He turned to his primus pilus; the little Greek stroked his forked beard and screwed up his eyes as the tall grass across the plain rippled briefly. Then a lone rider burst onto the plain.

The pair tensed, readying to run for their mounts, tethered in the trees nearby. Then Gallus held up a hand as he realised it was just a farm boy. ‘No, it’s not them.’

With a muted sigh, the two sunk down into the tall grass again and Gallus suppressed a curse. Being still like this all morning meant the bitter cold had gnawed through their woollen trousers and tunics and into their bones. He just hoped that if and when the rebel Goths showed up, they would be supple enough to ride, allowing them to carry out their plan.

He examined the map again; the four red dots indicated the pattern of the rebels’ movements, and by that logic, this settlement would be their next target. Of course, he mused, there was more than one group of rebels, but all he needed was to catch one of them, to find out more about their cause. But so far it had been like chasing shadows; the rebels would raze or pillage a settlement and then vanish before the Romans or Fritigern’s men could get to the scene.

‘By the end of today, sir, we’ll have one of these whoresons, and we’ll get them talking,’ Felix said, judging his tribunus’ thoughts well.

‘I’ve got a fair idea what they will say,’ Gallus mused, his eyes narrowing on the Carpates once more.

‘You’re certain it’s Athanaric’s men, aren’t you?’ Felix asked.

‘That dog has been spoiling for a fight for years,’ Gallus replied. ‘He’s had a hand in every modicum of trouble I have experienced in my time with the Claudia. Every single one.’

Felix frowned. ‘But what about the reports – that the rebels ride not in Athanaric’s colours, but under some ancient banner?’

Gallus turned to him, one eyebrow cocked. ‘A distraction, Felix; sleight of hand. That’s all it is. Athanaric is at least as shrewd as he is belligerent.’

‘Aye,’ Felix shrugged, ‘this is true. It doesn’t bode well for the poor sods who have to go into those mountains when the peace talks are finally arranged.’

Gallus sought his next words carefully; the peace talks with Athanaric were due to take place as soon as an ambassadorial party could be summoned and briefed. Dux Vergilius had advised Gallus that, when the time came, he and his vexillatio would be escorting the party into Athanaric’s dominion, to Dardarus, the fortified citadel in the heart of the Carpates. He thought better of discussing this now, instead reaching into his pack to pull a piece of hardtack from it.

‘Eat, it will fight the cold from your bones,’ he said, crunching into the biscuit and gesturing to his most trusted man to do likewise.

‘Agreed,’ Felix grinned wryly. Then he lifted his soured wineskin to his lips, ‘and a little of this will warm the blood too!’ With that, Felix gulped down a mouthful of soured wine and rummaged in his pack.

Gallus folded the map. Then he stopped, his eyes narrowing, touching a hand to the frozen ground. He felt it again, the tremors of approaching riders. He looked up; Felix stared back, wide eyed, the wine-skin hovering at his lips.

‘Mount!’ Gallus roared.

Felix threw down the wine sack, then the pair leapt onto their horses just as a pack of some hundred Gothic riders burst over the northern horizon and swept down towards the settlement.

It was them: the rebels. They rode in silence at first, braided locks billowing, lying flat over their saddles. Then as they approached the settlement they sat upright, punching their spears in the air, throwing out a trilling battle cry. At this, the Gothic farmers dropped their buckets, tools and bundles and ran for the stallhouses, screaming. One elderly villager’s cry was cut short with the swing of a longsword, a crimson spray puffing up and over the rebel who had slain him. Then the rest of the riders ploughed into the slower of the fleeing villagers, hacking, slicing and stabbing.

Gallus heeled his fawn stallion round to the south. He lifted his spatha, waving the iron blade towards a seemingly deserted patch of plain some two hundred feet south of the farm settlement. ‘First century, forward!’

Then, like an iron asp, the one hundred and sixty men of the first cohort, first century rose from the tall grass. They had been decked out in the precious remainder of unblemished armour: mail vests over fresh white, purple-edged woollen tunics – with their linen spares underneath to fend off the chill – and woollen, ruby cloaks. They carried freshly painted ruby and gold shields and spathas, spears and
plumbatae
– the lead weighted darts clipped in to the rear of their shields. The iron fins of their helmets split the tall grass like a school of sharks as they marched forward.

‘And let them know who we are!’ Gallus cried. As he and Felix heeled their mounts into a canter and then a gallop around the flank of the approaching riders, his skin rippled with pride as he heard the baritone roar of the legionaries, backed by the smashing of sword hilts on shield bosses.

‘They know all right!’ Felix cackled.

Gallus looked over to see the hundred Gothic riders’ charge faltering, more than half having halted altogether, heads looking this way and that at this unexpected appearance of the legion. ‘Ya!’ he roared, squeezing his heels into his stallion’s flanks.

‘They’re turning, sir, they’re turning around!’ Felix bellowed over the chill rush of air and hoofbeats.

‘Then let’s make sure they turn in to the valley!’ Gallus cried back.

As the first century marched on at a jog, Gallus and Felix galloped round to the north until they were within a few hundred paces of the rebel Goths. Here, just as Gallus had hoped, the rebel riders had reached a forking in the flat land ahead; one path led to the northeast and the forests, the other led into the winding valleys that hugged the base of the Carpates.
And if Athanaric has anything to do with this, then they’ll stay close to his beloved mountains.
As the Goths veered left and into the valley, his eyes narrowed. It was time to find out who these rogues were.