Gordon Doherty - Viper of the North

‘By Mithras, I’ve got work to do,’ Lupicinus snorted, striding across the face of the front rank in his pristine dress-armour, his back rigid, ‘but I’ll make a legion out of you yet!’

His riders, mounted only paces away, glowered down their noses at the assembled legionaries, smirks touching their lips at their leader’s wit. In their midst stood a filthy, bedraggled and panting Gothic villager. His hair was hanging loose and was matted with sweat and grime, his bare chest glistened with sweat and his lozenge-patterned trousers were torn and filthy.

‘Now, the sharper minds amongst you may have realised that dawn is not yet upon us.’ He paused, sweeping his gaze across the ranks as if to add weight to his words. ‘But I have roused you for a good reason. While you were sleeping, another incident erupted in Fritigern’s lands — in Istrita, a small village near the Carpates and the border with Athanaric’s territory.’

A collective groan from the ranks was stifled by Lupicinus’ glare.

‘A fifty will be sent to the scene. . ’

‘Permission to speak, sir!’ Quadratus barked before the comes could finish.

Lupicinus glared at the centurion. ‘Oh, this better be good, Centurion.’

‘Including your two centuries, there are less than five hundred men left within these four walls. The remainder of the legion is scattered like chaff over the wrong side of the Danubius. Nobody knows what has become of those vexillationes, sir.’

The skin on Pavo’s neck rippled as he heard the big centurion’s words, almost reflecting his own thoughts. Thinking like a leader — it gave him a brief glow of warmth.

‘Now,’ Quadratus continued, ‘should something happen here, should the Goths launch a full-scale attack on the bridge then the few hundred here could just about hold them off long enough to give us some thinking time. But if we continue to send out vexillationes. . ’

‘That’s quite enough, Centurion,’ Lupicinus barked over the Gaul.

‘But, sir, before Tribunus Gallus left on his mission, he left advisory orders that the vexillationes were to be reined in, to be brought under control — even at the risk of angering Fritigern. Surely you see sense in. . ’

‘I see sense in a centurion showing obedience to his superior!’ Lupicinus snapped, grappling his cane and raising it to strike, hovering just inches from Quadratus’ face.

In his peripheral vision, Pavo saw Quadratus’ lips trembling, not in fear, but in barely checked rage. This could get ugly , he feared.

But, mercifully, Lupicinus lowered his cane and reset his features to his usual haughty look, peering at Quadratus down his nose. ‘Perhaps this kind of cowardly outlook is only to be expected from you. . limitanei! ’ He spat the last word like a bad grape.

‘So perhaps I should excuse Centurion Quadratus from this vexillatio?’ Lupicinus mused, then a smug grin spread over his features. ‘Maybe a pseudo command is in order. Yes, I seem to remember one of the more junior infantrymen who considered himself a hero.’

Pavo’s weary mind suddenly focused and his guts turned over as he saw Lupicinus’ gaze sweep along the front rank. Sure enough, it came to rest on him.

‘Legionary Pavo,’ he said gleefully. ‘You will lead the fifty.’ The comes flicked his finger to the four nearest contubernia of comitatenses and another two from the native Claudia recruits. ‘I’ll leave it to you to choose your second-in-command. I want you formed up with full marching equipment and rations for two weeks by the time the sun touches the horizon.’ With that, Lupicinus turned to the rest of the legion and barked orders to begin double sentry duty.

Pavo’s blood felt like icewater in his veins. He looked to the pink tinge on the horizon, then he turned to the forty eight formed up before him. The recruits looked petrified and the veterans of Lupicinus’ centuries scowled at him in distaste. The breath seemed shallow in his lungs and his tongue bloated like bread. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, glancing to the comes. Lupicinus smirked at his hesitation. Pavo closed his eyes and thought of Gallus; what would the iron tribunus say to rally his men on a frozen morning, when a treacherous march into foreign lands waited on them?

‘Come on, come on! Do I have to get someone to hold your hand again?’ Lupicinus abruptly interrupted his train of thought.

Rattled, Pavo turned to the men and bawled, his voice shaking. ‘What are you staring at? You heard the comes: get kitted up and get back here. We move out before first light!’ His words died in the air and his heart sank as he saw the recruits’ faces whiten even more in fear and the scowling veterans’ eyes narrow further in distaste.

‘Bloody boy telling men what to do,’ one of the veterans muttered to the legionary next to him. It was Crito, the towering, sunken-eyed legionary from Lupicinus’ comitatenses who had looked on gleefully when Pavo had been ridiculed at the bridge the previous day. Crito sneered at Pavo, the pockmarks on his cheeks emphasised in the torchlight, before he turned and quick marched for the sleeping quarters.

Pavo was left standing alone, and he felt colder than ever. Then he realised he needed to choose his second-in-command and looked up, seeking out Sura. His friend was already walking over to join him.

‘I’ll be watching your back as usual then?’ Sura offered.

‘Aye, and I’ll be glad of it.’ Pavo forced a grin, despite the fear swirling in his gut.

As Sura followed the fifty into the barrack blocks, Pavo turned to Lupicinus and his riders. ‘What’s my briefing, sir?’ He addressed the comes, casting a soldier-like stare over Lupicinus’ shoulder and towards the horizon.

‘The briefing comes in two parts,’ Lupicinus replied, nodding to the filthy Goth straggler. ‘The first part is as you might expect. Istrita, this man’s village, is in the midst of some kind of standoff between the rebel Goths and those loyal to Fritigern. He says much blood has been spilled already, and there is much more to come.’ Lupicinus slapped a hand on his shoulder, a condescending smile on his face. ‘Then again, I know you’ll get by; after all, you’re one of the heroes of the Bosporus mission.’

Pavo couldn’t hold back a frown as he flicked his gaze to the comes. ‘Sir, I don’t know why you insist on. . ’

But Lupicinus interrupted. ‘And then there’s the second part of the brief — far more important than slaying a few rebel Goths. You’ll have another two passengers coming along for the ride.’ Lupicinus opened his arms out to the door of the principia . There, in the doorway of the officers’ quarters at the centre of the fort, stood a pair of silhouetted figures, one squat and portly, the other tall and athletic. ‘Come, ambassadors, meet your guide.’

The two figures walked forward and Pavo’s eyes locked onto the nearest of them: short, corpulent and waddling like an overfed goose dressed in purple robes. Then the torchlight revealed a bald pate ringed with wispy grey-blonde tufts, then buttery, pitted skin and a triple row of chins. The man’s beady eyes rested on Pavo like a predator.

No! Pavo’s stomach fell away.

‘Ah,’ Senator Tarquitius grinned like a shark. ‘So the fates conspire to see us reunited, Pavo?’

Pavo’s heart thundered; he hadn’t seen his ex-slavemaster since the tumultuous end to the Bosporus mission. Dread gripped him to think what duplicity and scheming had brought the man here to a border fort in the dead of night. He frowned at Lupicinus. ‘What is he doing here?’

‘The senator is to lead the long-awaited ambassadorial party into Gutthiuda.’

‘So it’s happening? You’re going to speak with Athanaric?’ Pavo’s mind raced. Despite his cynicism, this peace parley — if handled correctly — could be the key to establishing a truce with Athanaric until the Persian campaign was over and the manpower returned from the east. Yet it was to be headed up by the most odious creature he had ever known.