Viper of the North

Chapter 1

Durostorum’s winter morning market halted to watch as Legionary Numerius Vitellius Pavo of the XI Claudia stood to face the three troublemakers.

The slit-eyed drunk before Pavo roared and rushed forward, right hand balled into a fist, the left grasping a cup of foaming ale.

Pavo watched his assailant’s footsteps. He fought the urge to draw his spatha, then dodged back out of the man’s right hook, sticking out a foot. The man’s roar tapered into a yelp as he tripped, the contents of the ale cup showering Pavo’s face, cloak and mail vest. The man himself crashed to the frozen earth, face-first, shards of tooth spraying from his mouth.

The townsfolk watched with bated breath, eagerly eyeing Pavo and then the two sidekicks who had backed the drunk until only moments ago.

Pavo eyed the pair, stabbing a finger at the grounded drunk who moaned in agony. ‘Now I could have let him hit me,’ he panted, his breath clouding in the chill, ‘and then he would have lost the skin from his back for it. So take your chance; walk away and sleep it off!’

The two couldn’t hold Pavo’s gaze, and backed away then melted into the crowd. Then, with a groan, the grounded man pushed himself up. He held up his hands in a gesture of submission, blood streaming from his shattered array of teeth.

‘Look, there’s barely enough food to go round,’ he said, nodding to the town horreum.

Pavo kept his face stern, but the man was right; the grain store was running dangerously low and winter had yet to reach its depths.

‘So if we can’t eat our fill then we may as well drink what’s left in the ale barrels,’ the man continued, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

Pavo glanced over the man’s shoulder to the squat stone inn, distinguished by the stirring pole and vine leaves resting by the doorway. The Boar and Hollybush was the favourite haunt for the men of his legion. But today, like every other market day, it was full of inebriated locals. Worse, when he had ventured inside earlier, there was no sign of her. Felicia. His mind flitted momentarily to the last night they had shared, her warm skin against his, her sweet scent, her locks whispering over his chest.

‘Besides,’ the man’s grating tone snapped him back to the present, ‘there are hardly enough of your lot over in the fort to keep this place in check,’ the drunk slurred, then turned to trudge away.

Pavo made to fire some retort, but the drunk was right again. In the last few weeks, many Gothic settlements that had sworn loyalty to Fritigern, the dominant iudex of the Thervingi and a tentative Roman ally, had reported disturbances and rebel uprisings. Thus, numerous vexillationes had been summoned north, stripping the XI Claudia of their already understrength complement. Now, barely three hundred men including auxiliaries, recruits and Gothic foederati were housed in the fort.

As the crowd dissolved back into the daily bustle of market day, Pavo spat the traces of beer from his lips. He pulled his hands together across his face to the point of his beaky nose, then wiped them across his hazel eyes, thick brows and dark, stubbled scalp. He picked up his intercisa helmet from the ground where it had fallen, brushing the dirt from the iron fin. Then, realising his woollen trousers and the tunic he wore under his mail shirt were not quite so white anymore, he pulled his grey woollen cloak around his lean frame, wincing at the stench of the ale-soaked garment.

Footsteps rattled up beside him and his heart leapt. He spun, fists raised, then slumped in relief at the sight of his fellow legionary. ‘Sura!’ This blonde-mopped and cherub-faced lad had been Pavo’s loyal friend since the first day of enlistment. ‘Did you catch the rest of them?’

‘I caught one and kicked his balls,’ Sura gasped for breath, resting a hand on Pavo’s shoulder. ‘Nearly broke my bloody foot. The others. . they’ll think twice about starting a ruckus when I’m around. Now do me a favour — let’s head back to the fort.’

‘Aye, this place is becoming bloody treacherous!’ Pavo muttered. ‘If things carry on like this I’ll have to draw my sword on them one day.’

They walked through the flagstoned streets, past the timber arena, the domed Christian church and the squat tenements until they reached the town gates. Here, Pavo cast a foul glare at the two auxiliaries atop the thick stone gatehouse. The pair pretended not to notice, just as they had turned a blind eye to the drunk and his friends wreaking havoc at the market despite having a perfect view of the incident from the walls.

Outside the town, Pavo shivered, pulling his cloak tighter. The morning chill was stark and the air was spiced with woodsmoke. Winter had gripped the banks of the River Danubius and the cornfields lay brown and fallow, cloaked in a frost that was insensitive to the best efforts of the morning sun. To the east, about a half-mile from the south bank of the great river, the squat bulwark that was the fortress of the XI Claudia Legion stood like a titan’s gravestone. Coated in moss, sparkling with frost and framed by the distant shimmering waters of the Pontus Euxinus, this place had been his home for nearly a year. The towers of the fort were crowned with the ruby-red bull banners of this legion and the battlements were punctuated with the distinctive iron fin-topped intercisa helmets of the precious few sentries. Meanwhile, the rest of the legion trained on the plain to the northwest of the fort, and the sight of them warmed Pavo’s heart.

Then a distant moan of a Gothic war horn sounded to the north. Instinctively, he and Sura spun towards the noise. Then the pair slumped and Pavo chided himself, realising it was just another echo of the troubles going on deep in those foreign lands. They halted there for a moment, gazing north over the canopy of dark forest and the hazy outline of the distant Carpates Mountains. Gutthiuda; land of the Goths, and a cauldron of trouble for the imperial borders and the limitanei legions who manned them.

‘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.

Finally, they reached the recruit training area. Pavo stepped over the form of a prone and panting youngster who had crawled to the eastern edge of the training field to spit blood into the earth. He looked over the latest spluttering and red-faced intake; boys scraped from the border farms and undesirables drawn from the cities. ‘Were we ever this poor?’ He cocked an eyebrow.

‘You were,’ Sura fired back, then grinned. ‘Ach, relax,’ he continued, pointing to the hulking figure standing in the midst of the recruits, ‘Centurion Quadratus will have this lot fighting like lions in no time!’

Right on cue, the Gaulish centurion smashed his wooden training sword on his shield boss and roared. ‘Enough for today — I can’t take any more of your pansy fighting! Fall into line, you pussies! Faster!’ Then one rotund recruit went over on his ankle and crumpled to the earth with a high-pitched squeal. Quadratus shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. ‘In the name of Mithras! Fall out!’

Pavo could not help but crack a smile, remembering his own time as a recruit.

Finally, the recruits jostled back towards the fort in some semblance of order. Quadratus walked over to Pavo and Sura, still shaking his head.

‘Even you two were less shit than that lot,’ he mused absent-mindedly, his eyes hanging on the last of them as they entered the fort.

Sura frowned in indignation, but the big man continued.

‘And I missed out on all these sorties over the river because apparently I’m well placed to train the recruits. I’ll bloody well place my foot right up their ars. . ’

Pavo leaned forward and coughed, jolting Quadratus back to them.

‘Mithras! Have you been swimming in ale?’ Quadratus recoiled at the stale stench from Pavo.

‘Trouble in town sir, I broke up a fight between drunks.’

‘They don’t have anything better to do than sup ale before noon?’ Quadratus mused, then cocked an eyebrow, folded his bottom lip and tilted his head from side to side as if considering the logic.

‘Er. . sir, you wanted us for something?’ Pavo asked.

Quadratus looked at them blankly for a moment, then clicked his fingers. ‘Aye, I did,’ he nodded up to the banks of the Danubius and grinned. ‘You’ll like this. Come on,’ he beckoned them forward up the dirt path that wound over to the banks.

They headed towards a bobbing timber structure that straddled the river. The pontoon bridge had been pulled together from the remaining husk of the Classis Moesica, the rotting hulls of the triremes roped together and boarded over. At the near end of the bridge, a sturdy castrum had been erected, the timber construction serving as both a bridgehead and a fortlet. The bridge itself seemed impossibly long, the power of the river’s current bending it into a gentle crescent. All this to provide a means of rapid Roman response to the trouble in Fritigern’s lands. The price of truce, Pavo mused.

As if reading his thoughts, Quadratus nodded north-west, over the river. ‘Let’s hope Tribunus Gallus and the lads can nip these uprisings in the bud.’

Gallus. Pavo’s heart warmed at the mention of the tribunus’ name. True, the leader of the legion was cold and utterly resolute, and Pavo had feared and hated the man in equal measure in his early days as a recruit. But time had served to show him that the tribunus’ iron heart was but a necessary veneer. And what a fine leader of the XI Claudia he was. Indeed, if there was any one soldier he would bet on to walk into Hades and better the demons that lay in wait there, it was Gallus. Over a week ago, the tribunus had headed north with a strong vexillatio, intent on tracking down the lead band of these Gothic rebels, leaving Quadratus in charge at the fort. Pavo’s gaze grew distant as he issued a prayer that they would return safely.

Then he was shaken back to the present with a thick crack of rope, then a hissing followed by a stark series of thuds.

‘Did I really just see that?’ Sura frowned, elbowing Pavo.

Up ahead, by the castrum, a cluster of four legionaries were fussing over some contraption beside which sat an empty cart, lopsided with one wheel buckled. As they approached it, he frowned: it looked like a mutated ballista — it had the frame of a bolt-thrower but it was bristling with four missiles instead of just one. Three lengths of rope, each as thick as his forearm, were coiled at each edge of the device. The legionaries pulled at winches, stretching this rope taut along the slider. Then they slipped four massive iron-headed bolts in place between the ropes and the bow-shaped iron front-piece.

‘Ah, ladies! Glad you could join us at last!’ The short, bald Optio Avitus grinned as he spun round from the device.

‘Ladies?’ Quadratus cocked an eyebrow.

At this, Avitus’ face fell and he quickly saluted. ‘Ready for inspection, sir!’

Pavo suppressed a grin. Avitus had never quite adjusted from the days when he had shared a contubernium with Quadratus, Pavo and the other veterans. They had shared a tent, rations, reward and punishment together. And the banter. . he cocked an eyebrow as some of the stories and pranks flitted through his mind. . the banter had been brutal.

But then Quadratus’ grimace melted into a grin. ‘Ready for inspection? Aye, whatever. Let this pair of pussies see this beauty do her thing,’ he tapped a finger on the front-piece of the device from which the four missile heads poked.

Avitus nodded and grinned at Pavo and Sura. ‘Who needs comitatenses legions when you have one of these?’ He lifted a hand and addressed the four who manned the device. ‘Ready? Loose!’

Pavo flinched as the device jolted like an angered bull. Then, with a whoosh, all four of the ballista bolts ripped through the air in a low trajectory. They sped across the broad waters of the river before smashing into a felled spruce on the far side, frost and splinters spraying up as the missile heads burst from the other side of the trunk. The four bolts quivered as if pleading to be set free in flight again, and Pavo gawped at the dark crack that ran the length of the tree.

‘Told you you’d like it,’ Quadratus muttered smugly. ‘Athanaric can line up his mighty cavalry over there for us. Yes. . that’d do just nicely.’

Pavo walked around the device. He noted that it was set on the ground on thick stilts; the nearby cart had probably been used to haul the hefty piece of equipment from the fortress before collapsing on its axles.

‘Static artillery,’ Avitus said, reading his thoughts, ‘I wouldn’t fancy hauling one of those on a sortie! The smith and the carpenter at the fort reckon they might be able to develop an axle and wheel that’ll carry this bugger more than a few hundred feet. . but they’ve been saying that for weeks.’

‘Shame. Still though, are there any more of them?’

Avitus lifted his helmet and scratched his bald head in mock bewilderment. ‘Son, when was the last time you saw a new pair of boots issued, never mind a piece of artillery?’

Pavo glanced down at his boots; split at the shin and with soles worn to almost nothing. He shrugged. ‘So where did this one come from?’

Avitus glanced at Quadratus, who nodded. ‘Thrift and, er, swift thinking,’ he replied.

Avitus continued; ‘Aye, let’s just say we, er, salvaged what we could before the vultures took everything we had east, with the comitatenses. This fine device you see is hand-crafted from timber hewn from the warehouse shelves and iron smelted from a set of mail vests that. . went missing.’

Pavo grinned. ‘Nice work. . ’ his words tailed off and the ground started to shake, he spun in the direction of the fortress. The decurion from the training field led his turma of thirty equites at a trot towards the bridge. The riders were carrying the ruby and gold shields of the XI Claudia, holding hasta spears vertical and wearing mail shirts and intercisa helmets, their ruby cloaks fluttering in their wake. Behind them marched a column of fifty legionaries.

‘Really? Another vexillatio?’ Sura moaned.

Pavo mouthed the same question. This was the sixth detachment that had been sent out in the last two days.

‘Aye. Something’s very wrong over there,’ Avitus frowned, looking north. ‘It’s all very well keeping the peace with Fritigern, but we must be down to what, a few hundred men?’

The decurion at the head of the vexillatio issued a brisk salute to which Quadratus responded. Then, with a thunder of boots and hooves on timber, the party moved onto the bridge and on into Gutthiuda.

Quadratus sighed and shrugged almost apologetically. ‘The order for that lot to be despatched came direct from Dux Vergilius, tucked up in the safety of a villa, miles to the south. What can we do when we are at the whims of a fool like him?’

Pavo frowned. He had never met in person the Magister Militum Per Illyricum, the man nominally in charge of the armies of all Moesia and the river fleet. However, he had witnessed the man’s last visit to the fort: a grossly overweight, red-faced and constantly trembling individual, at ease only after he had emptied several goblets of wine.

‘Hello?’ Avitus chirped, shielding his eyes from the sun to look back to the fort. ‘Seems we have reinforcements?’

Pavo and the rest of the group turned to look. There, approaching the fort gates from the southern highway, a column approached. A cluster of some fifteen finely armoured riders headed a column of two centuries of legionaries who filed up behind them, carrying freshly painted blue shields. The lead rider, distinguished by an old-style and somewhat exaggerated horsehair plume on his helmet, was calling up to the gatehouse. The sentry atop the walls was pointing north, right at the giant ballista. The leader nodded then barked to his infantry and all but ten of them split off to file inside the fort. Then, the remaining ten legionaries and the riders moved towards the ballista.

‘Comitatenses?’ Pavo reasoned, noticing the fine scale vests the foot soldiers wore. ‘I thought they had all gone east?’

‘Not all of them,’ Quadratus said with a sigh.

‘Sir?’ Pavo quizzed.

‘Going by the ridiculous plume, I’d say that was Comes Lupicinus. He was in charge of the Thracian field armies. I’d heard rumours that he had been left behind with a few centuries of men while his legions were summoned east. And let’s just say that Emperor Valens left him back here for a reason,’ the big Gaulish centurion rolled his eyes.

‘Aye,’ Avitus added, ‘I’ve heard of him; an arsehole who wouldn’t know the right end of a spatha until you shoved it in his gut.’

Just then, a young legionary stumbled from the training field and into the path of the plumed rider’s horse. Then the rider thrashed at the young man with a cane and a sharp crack of wood on skin split the air followed by a roar of pain.

‘Just stay quiet, I’ll deal with him,’ Quadratus insisted.

Pavo watched as the mounted party drew closer and slowed to a trot, the following ten legionaries catching up. The leader wore an antiquated bronze muscled cuirass and a fine, silk-lined crimson cloak. He glared down his nose, his lips pinched and his piercing grey eyes full of scrutiny. A cold bastard. Pavo hoped for a fleeting moment that this was another in the mould of Gallus.

Then Lupicinus lifted a hand in silence and his men stopped behind him. He trotted forward, peacock-like, eyeing the group around the ballista, nose wrinkling as if he had stumbled into an open latrine. He bristled and flexed his shoulders. ‘Would Centurion Quadratus make himself known!’ The man’s tone was sharp and biting.

‘Sir!’ Quadratus replied, standing to attention.

Lupicinus cocked an eyebrow at the big Gaul. ‘You are relieved of your command, Centurion. As Comes of the Field Armies of Thracia, I will be overseeing the limitanei of this region as a whole, and I’ll be acting tribunus for the XI Claudia. My two centuries will bolster the numbers of the XI Claudia and will lead your rogues and farmers by example.’

‘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.

The boy hugged the goat’s neck, eyes wide in panic.

‘My oxen! They’re trapped in the swamp back there!’ The boy cried, pulling the goat back from Pavo by its tether. The lad’s eyes were red with tears, his topknotted blonde hair bedraggled and spattered with mud. A bout of pained lowing sounded from behind the gorse.

‘It’s okay,’ Pavo said in a soothing tone, tucking his spatha into his scabbard, his skin prickling in embarrassment.

Quadratus closed his eyes, shook his head and muttered a frustrated prayer to Mithras. ‘False alarm, sir,’ he shouted over his shoulder to Lupicinus.

Pavo looked again into the foliage, frowning as Lupicinus’ belly laughter filled the air.

‘Perhaps you’ll be capable of dealing with this situation, Pavo? You and Centurion Quadratus can round off this business.’ With that, he swept his hand above his head in a circle. ‘The rest of you, back to the fort. There is much to sort out with this sham of a legion.’

With a thunder of hooves and boots, the comes and the rest of the group were off. Pavo and Quadratus shared a dark look, then the boy tugged on the hem of Pavo’s tunic.

‘My oxen?’

Pavo nodded and tried to soften his expression. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll see you safely on your way. Show me where they are.’

The boy scampered round the gorse bush and Pavo followed. As he passed Quadratus, the big Gaulish centurion grumbled, his foul glare fixed on the departing Lupicinus.

‘If I ever whinge about Gallus again, kick my stones for me, will you?’

The figure remained in the shadows of the thick foliage, his gaze trained on the two Romans as they crossed the bridge into the empire again. With the oxen freed, the boy came to him, holding out a hand.

‘I have done as you asked, sir,’ the boy said nervously, holding out his cupped hands, screwing up his eyes at the shadows.

‘Aye, you have done well,’ the dark figure replied.

The boy gulped as the dark figure leaned forward just a fraction, so a sliver of sunlight sparkled on three bronze hoops dangling from an earlobe, then dropped a pair of coins into his hands.

The figure watched as the boy led the animals away, a dark cloud passing over his mind as he thought of his men further up the trail that would slit the youngster’s throat. But destiny required ruthlessness and a jealous guarding of knowledge, and that destiny beckoned.

Yes, he mused; the Roman borders were weaker than ever.

It was time to begin.