Gordon Doherty - Viper of the North

‘Every time I hear it,’ Sura said, ‘I feel my sword arm itch, and my shield arm tense. I’ll wager my savings that it’s Athanaric behind these rebel uprisings; anything to agitate Fritigern and endanger his truce with Rome.’

‘Aye, I have my doubts over this mooted peace parley with the man,’ Pavo agreed, squinting into the winter sun at the outline of the Carpates. Deep in those mountains, the belligerent Gothic Iudex was holed up with his war-hungry followers. There had been talk for some time of a group of diplomats being sent to Athanaric’s lands. The idea was that they could meet with the iudex and broker some truce, but the idea jarred with Pavo; at every turn, Athanaric had sought to bring trouble upon both the Roman borders and Fritigern’s lands. It was a blessing indeed that Fritigern held stock in his truce with Rome. ‘I just pray to Mithras that the vexillationes over there come back to us safe and well.’

Sura issued a gruff sigh beside him, pointing to the fort gates. ‘And if it’s not vexillationes heading north, its Emperor Valens draining man and sword to the east.’

Pavo turned and shook his head at the sight; a wagon laden with shimmering armour and arms rumbled from the fort gateway and across the walkway straddling the triple ditch. The driver whipped his horses into a canter towards the road that snaked east to the coast and the port town of Tomis. From there it would be shipped to Trapezus, then hauled overland to the eastern frontier and the war with Persia. This had become a common sight since last summer. First, a few of the comitatenses legions had been summoned east from the field army of Moesia, not enough to cause huge concern, as plenty more of the elite mobile legions remained. But then, as autumn arrived, more and more of them were plucked away, and just last month, the last two left. And then the entire field army of Thracia had followed.

Now, the limitanei were alone to man the borders while the populous lands to the south lay virtually unprotected, all the way to Constantinople. Inside the fort, the supply warehouse was an empty shell, and then there was the still and silent fabrica. The workshop had been out of use for some weeks now due to lack of wool, linen and iron with which to craft new garb, weapons and armour. War was pulling these lands apart from every direction, it seemed.

Pavo snorted and walked on; this was the calling of a legionary, just as it had been for his father, so it would be for him. Since joining the XI Claudia nearly a year ago, Pavo had grown into legionary life, developing a necessary callus over his heart. More importantly, the legions had saved him from a life of servitude. He suppressed a shudder as his mind flitted back to the death of his father and the descent into slavery that followed. All those years living in the stinking cellar of Senator Tarquitius’ villa in Constantinople. Images of the beatings, the violation and the murder of fellow slaves he had witnessed there barged into his mind uninvited.

He closed his eyes to blot out the memories, then he carried out the ritual that had kept him strong through those dark years; under his cloak, he touched a hand to the battered bronze phalera that hung from the leather strap around his neck. The legionary medallion was his one possession that linked him to his father.

He was roused from his thoughts by a tap-tapping of wooden training swords, a rumbling of hooves and barked orders. He looked up to see that they had reached the training field. Some two hundred men — cavalry, archers and legionaries — went about their daily drills, breath clouding in the air as they were put through their paces. As the pair made to walk on past the field, a voice called out.

‘Oi, you two! Over here!’

Pavo turned to see a silhouetted figure waving at them from the northern end of the field, where the recruits were being put through their paces. Even from this distance, Centurion Quadratus’ hulking build distinguished him from any other on the field. The big Gaul was a true veteran, one of the precious few who had served and survived in the legion since before Pavo enlisted. Indeed, Pavo thought, life expectancy in the limitanei was so short that he and Sura were also considered veterans, both at the ripe old age of just twenty one.

‘He’d better not be looking to use me as an example barbarian again,’ Sura cocked an eyebrow, touching a hand to his ribs and then wincing. ‘He made me look a right bloody idiot in front of those recruits.’

‘Aye, but you helped,’ Pavo smirked, then dodged a playful punch to the arm from his friend. ‘Now come on, I find it’s best not to keep him waiting.’

They cut across the training area, examining the goings-on around them. To the east of the field, a thock-thocking of iron splicing wood rang out from the newly constructed archery range. Here, the two sagittarii archers who had recently been sent to the fort stood dressed in scale-vests, ruby cloaks and conical helmets sporting nose-guards. They watched the legionaries’ dubious attempts at hitting the centre of the timber targets. This was the latest edict from Emperor Valens; all legionaries were to be trained to competence with the bow. It was a meagre balance for stripping the land of its legions, Pavo mused as he watched. One legionary hit the centre of the target and made to punch the air in celebration, when one of the sagittarii stopped him, shaking his head, pointing out some minimal distance between his strike and dead centre.

Then they came to the cavalry training area. Here, ten of the turma of thirty equites stationed at the fort were being put through their paces by their decurion . The commanding officer yelled at his Roman cavalry as, dressed only in boots and tunics, they practiced vaulting onto the saddle and then off again, repeating the motion over and over.

‘Come on, men, in time!’ The decurion barked. ‘If you can’t do it in time now then you’ll never manage it in full armour!’

Pavo sympathised, then he turned back to Centurion Quadratus. The big Gaul with the thick blonde moustache was berating a ragged group of some fifty young men in an even more ferocious manner. He grinned, reserving his sympathy for these lads instead, and made to stride forward.

‘Careful!’ Sura yelped, slapping a hand across Pavo’s chest.

Pavo stopped dead as the other twenty equites thundered past in full kit; mail shirts, iron helmets and ruby cloaks, frost spraying up in their wake. They rode their mounts around the training field, leaping over a raised timber bar erected on the far side before coming back round on another circuit. This time, as they approached, the decurion turned to them and roared; ‘Equites Sagittarii, loose!’ With this, the rearmost ten pulled bows from their backs and twisted in their saddles, still keeping pace with the foremost ten. Then they trained their sights on a battered post in the middle of the training field and, as one, loosed their arrows. Ten arrows hammered home, sending splinters of wood up into the air.

‘Thirty of them,’ Sura muttered, ‘when we need hundreds.’

To the side of the field, a small clutch of Gothic foederati watched their Roman counterparts, chattering in their own tongue. On entering Roman lands and enlisting, these men swore loyalty to the empire; some served as legionaries, others — like these — retained their Gothic armour and appearance and served as cavalry scouts. Pavo had known some good-hearted warriors of their ilk in his time with the legions, but he had known at least as many black-blooded ones too. They seemed disinterested in the proceedings, and this irked him. Then again, he mused, this lot could train every day with the legion until they collapsed of exhaustion, but only the adversity of battle would reveal the true colour of their hearts.