Gordon Doherty - Viper of the North

‘Indeed, we are,’ Tarquitius replied, smugly.

Then the tall, lean man beside Tarquitius stepped forward into the torchlight. ‘We will do all we can to broker a lasting peace.’

All eyes turned to him.

Pavo saw that his expression was earnest, unlike that of Tarquitius. His features were sharp, his cheekbones like blades, and his green eyes alert, delicate lines beside them betraying his age. His brown locks were shot with flecks of grey, dangling on his brow in the old Roman style. He wore an eastern-style, long-sleeved tunic with a high collar, blue woollen trousers tucked into brown leather riding boots and he carried a stuffed hemp satchel.

‘Ambassador Salvian,’ Tarquitius announced, ‘my protege.’

Poor bastard, Pavo thought.

‘Senator, Ambassador, Pavo here will head up your escort,’ Lupicinus said, then turned to Pavo, his nose wrinkling. ‘Pavo, you will escort the ambassadorial party as far as the crossroads by Wodinscomba . That’s, what, some ten days march from here?’

Pavo envisioned the map of Gutthiuda, and the terrain between the fort and the rugged hollow that marked the border between Fritigern and Athanaric’s lands. ‘Eight days on a quick march, sir,’ he replied evenly, sensing Tarquitius’ gaze crawling over his skin.

‘Very well. But a quick march is less important than ensuring the ambassadorial party goes unharmed at all costs, understood?’

‘What happens once we reach the crossroads, sir?’ Pavo asked.

‘There, the senator and the ambassador will rendezvous with,’ he paused, as if he had detected a bad smell, ‘Tribunus Gallus and his party. I have sent a rider ahead at full gallop to contact Gallus and his men and divert them to Wodinscomba. When you rendezvous, the tribunus will then escort the ambassadorial party to Dardarus.’

Pavo’s heart warmed at the thought; Gallus was to be the man to lead the ambassadorial party into Dardarus, Athanaric’s citadel. His only regret was that he could not march with them. ‘And my fifty, sir, should we then wait at Wodinscomba for the tribunus and the ambassadors to return?’

Lupicinus sighed. ‘Were my orders not clear enough for you, soldier? Make haste to Wodinscomba. Then, as soon as you have rendezvoused, you get your fifty to Istrita. . and leave the thinking for the real officers and nobles.’

Pavo gulped back the urge to snort at this latest arrogant blast. Instead, he saluted, gazed to the horizon, channelled the anger into his lungs, and bellowed with all his might; ‘Yes, sir! ’ Lupicinus and Tarquitius flinched at his blast before correcting their stances. Ambassador Salvian barely disguised a smirk at this.

Pavo instantly liked the man.

The gates of the fortress clunked shut and the fifty set off for the pontoon bridge. They moved at a quick march, two abreast with Salvian riding on a white gelding by their left flank and the copious burden of Tarquitius just behind on an unfortunate black stallion. They passed through a pool of thick, freezing fog that clung to a dip in the hinterland and then crested the clear, frosted ground by the training field, sparkling in the breaking dawn.

Up front, Pavo’s breath clouded before him, his lips and nostrils stinging from the cold. Before leaving the fort, they had paused only to throw down some hastily cooked millet porridge and to wash it down with icy water. While the rest had gulped down their meal, Pavo had barely managed to eat half of his ration, his gut churning with anxiety. His thoughts danced with taunting self-doubt and the image of the fifty and Tarquitius scowling at him — or worse, laughing at him — from behind.

He glanced to Sura, by his side; Sura had stuck by him resolutely in his time with the legion. For a moment, a glow of optimism grew in his belly when he thought of Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Felix marching side by side like this.

Then he shot a look over his shoulder, not for too long as he didn’t want to arouse mistrust in his men. From his snatched glance, he could see that the comitatenses at the front of the fifty marched well, in formation and at a good pace; Lupicinus’ legionaries were obviously well-drilled soldiers. But then there was the handful to the rear — the Claudia recruits; they were ragged, some falling back or marching wide of the column — only to be expected given that they only had a few weeks of legionary life under their belts. He remembered his own fledgling days when a quick march felt like outright torture. It was not so much the pace, but the relentless endurance required to keep it up for ten hours or more every day, especially when laden with the full marching kit: earth shifting basket, hand axe, pickaxe and sickle together with several water skins, a soured wineskin, wraps of hardtack biscuits, millet grain and salted mutton, all pulling at the shoulders. And then there was the mail-shirt, digging into the skin, whilst boots scraped on ankles and helmets chafed on scalps, not to mention the crux of the legionary kit: the spatha sword, hasta spear and the weighty legionary shield.

Despite this, he felt sure they needed a stern word to bring them into formation, but then doubts crept into his thoughts again; would they see it as overly heavy-handed? They were only a quarter mile from the fort after all. No, he affirmed, marching in formation was crucial for the swiftness of the mission. And potentially, he reasoned, for their survival. He would do it for his own good and theirs.

‘Keep it tighter,’ he roared, then took a breath and turned to finish his sentence; tighter at the back! But before he could finish, a voice cut him off from just behind.

‘If you think you can march better than us, then drop back here and carry one of these,’ Crito grumbled. The rest of the older men muttered in agreement at this.

Pavo fell silent as he glanced at the veterans. They were laden not only with their kit and ration packs, but also — in lieu of pack mules — with the goatskin and timber tent packs doubling their burden. Despite this they were marching in perfect time and formation and Crito was probably the finest example. Pavo’s lips trembled as he tried to think of a line that would clarify his order, something that wouldn’t sound cloying to the veterans. But too much time passed and the moment was gone.

They came to the bridgehead. There, four legionaries manned the castrum and another two milled around the giant ballista, all stamping their feet and blowing into their hands for heat. Pavo slowed and saluted, just as the vexillatio had done yesterday. ‘Vexillatio, coming through,’ he called to the sentries.

They straightened and saluted. Then, on seeing that no centurion or true officer marched at their head, they slumped. ‘Another vexillatio? Is there anyone left in the fort?’ One groaned, his words tinged with anxiety.

Pavo marched past in silence, but he heard the men of his column exchanging gripes about the situation. In the flurry of muttering and whispers, he was sure he could hear his name being mentioned in acid tones. His skin burned. He glanced up to see Tarquitius’ eyes fixed upon him, revelling in his ex-slave’s discomfort. Then he looked to his side to see Salvian the ambassador watching him with that earnest expression. Probably shocked by the mumbling boy who’s been tasked with protecting him , he mused, turning to study the ground in front of him again. Then, a nudge from Sura pulled him from his own self-loathing.

‘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.