Viper of the North

Chapter 4

The marching camp was enshrouded in three layers; darkness, freezing fog and then thick forest. Sitting on a log in the centre of the small enclosure, Senator Tarquitius hogged one side of the newly kindled fire. He watched as the legionaries put the finishing touches to the camp, staking their tents to the ground and battering the palisade perimeter into place.

He sighed, his belly groaning as he looked again to his prime cut of goat meat sizzling in the flames. ‘Come on, come on!’ He muttered and then looked up furtively, anxious that one of the legionaries might catch sight of his ample rations. But what if they do? They are just dice in my hands, he reminded himself with a grin. Then his eyes settled on Pavo, their so-called leader. And this one is a weighted die indeed, he mused as he eyed his ex-slave, stood alone and silent, examining the fortifications while the rest of the legionaries bantered. He pulled the meat from the flames and sunk his teeth into the tender flesh, juices rolling down his chins. Yes, this boy is becoming a valuable asset indeed; he just needs to be harnessed. His eyes fell upon the bronze phalera hanging around Pavo’s neck. The piece had been given to the boy, years ago, when Tarquitius had bought him at the slave market. A withered crone had pushed the piece into Pavo’s hand and then turned to Tarquitius to hiss a scathing diatribe in his ear. It had chilled him to his core, but in her words lay a sparkling gem, a precious nugget of information that would once again have Pavo in the palm of his hand. He grinned. Yes, perhaps it is time. .

‘Your mind is working at all times!’ A voice chirped.

Tarquitius bit his tongue, yelped and then looked up to see Salvian smiling back at him — that same open, altruistic expression and half-mouthed grin that he had tolerated for the last six months. He barely disguised a grumble of discontent as he shuffled along to allow his protege to sit. ‘I muse while I sleep, I consider when I am awake,’ Tarquitius said, then leaned in towards his protege, wiping the meat juices from his chin with the back of his hand, eyes wide, ‘and at all times, I am leagues ahead of my opponent.’

Salvian nodded and his eyes darted as if a great truth had been revealed to him.

Tarquitius barely suppressed a snort; this man had been through the academies of Constantinople and had learned from the finest thinkers, philosophers and strategists. Yes, he was clever, Tarquitius thought, but his mind was almost too sponge-like, so easily impressionable, lacking that vital spark. You simply can’t teach cunning, he smirked. Regardless, Salvian would make ideal lapdog in the political world, to go alongside a military puppet like Pavo. Again he grinned.

No, the gift of cunning was only for a worthy few, he asserted. It was just such a trait that had seen Tarquitius rise through the political echelons. That rise had not been without setback and loss of face, he shuddered, remembering the dark dalliance with the Holy See that had spiralled out of control. But, as ever, he had proved indomitable until now, when he was deemed the best-placed official to face the mighty Athanaric himself. Well, he mused, he had at least shown shrewdness and temerity in bribing Dux Vergilius and buying his place on this mission.

‘When we travel west, to Dardarus,’ Salvian said, carving slices from an apple with his dagger, ‘what approach should we take with our Gothic counterparts?’

Tarquitius frowned, his mouth agape, stringy meat dangling from his teeth. Was he being questioned by this upstart? ‘We take the approach that I see fit, Ambassador. You watch and learn, and you will be wiser for it.’

Salvian nodded slowly at this. ‘And I value the opportunity, Senator. If there is anything I can contribute — perhaps a counter-proposal that seems to play into Athanaric’s favour, something to move things along — then I’d be happy to rehearse this with you?’

Tarquitius’ eyes narrowed. Damn, that sounds good. ‘Perhaps, Salvian, perhaps. It is not the most sophisticated approach, but I’ll keep it in mind — as a last resort,’ he said and then sunk his teeth into his goat meat once more.

Salvian nodded graciously and then stood to leave the fire. Tarquitius watched him go, then turned back to look into the flames. His face grew red from the heat as he gorged on the goat meat and considered what was to come. The talks with Athanaric were what they were and no more. A facade shrouding the plan he and the Gothic Iudex had concocted. Power could be gained readily in times of crisis, and he had lived from meagre rations for too long.

It was time to spawn a crisis that would be remembered for a long, long time.

Pavo shivered, once more scrutinising the wooden stakes, ditch and rampart of the marching camp. Then he glanced out into the frozen night; anything could be out there, he thought, screwing up his eyes, struggling to see more than a few paces beyond the perimeter. Housing only his fifty men, the camp was a miniature of the more defensible counterpart that would be constructed by cohorts and full legions. So it wasn’t strictly a marching camp; yes it would give them precious time should they come under attack, but was it acceptable? Again he agonised over whether it would be right to insist that the legionaries — tired, hungry and frozen after the third day of marching — should reconstruct the west-facing side. Then again, he mused, why not? It would be difficult to further sour the relationship he had with these soldiers.

‘You have done well for yourself, boy,’ a voice spoke, startling him.

Pavo spun round to see the portly figure of Tarquitius, wrapped in a blue woollen cloak, his eyes wide and keen.

‘From a slave to, what, a centurion, in just a year?’

‘I’m no officer,’ Pavo replied guardedly; the Senator had witnessed the blatant lack of respect Crito and his cronies had shown Pavo throughout the march so far. ‘I’m in charge of this vexillatio, but without official rank.’

‘So the legions are bare, then?’ The Senator’s eyes narrowed and he craned in closer. ‘The recruits that are coming in, they cannot backfill the shortage of manpower being sent out into these lands?’

Pavo balked at the stench of the man’s breath. ‘You saw the fort, the few who line its battlements, the handful at the bridgehead. Supporting this truce with Fritigern is proving as corrosive as warring with any openly hostile neighbour.’

‘But how many more are to be levied from the Moesian farmlands — do you know?’

Pavo hesitated; a senator with an interest in military matters was not unusual, but this particular senator had a black history of dabbling in politics that spanned across the borders. There were no new levies scheduled before the spring, but he bit back on this knowledge and shrugged. ‘I’m just a legionary,’ he replied flatly.

‘Ah,’ Tarquitius flashed a brief grin that never reached his eyes, ‘I see.’

Pavo turned to look out through the fog once more, waiting for the Senator to go away. But Tarquitius did not move.

‘Her words would change your life, Pavo.’

Pavo’s skin crawled and his eyes darted across the forest. Her; the word meant only one thing between Pavo and Tarquitius. It was the day the Senator had bought him at the slave market in Constantinople. He remembered the heat, the stench and the sense of dying hope in his heart. Then he remembered the gnarled crone who had pushed through the crowd and pressed the bronze phalera into his hand. In one heartbeat he had nothing, in the next he had hope once more. Whether she was a demented old woman or a messenger of sorts, it was as if Father had spoken to him. As if neither death nor the thousand miles between Constantinople and Father’s bones in the ruins of Bezabde could separate them. He spun where he stood. ‘What did you say?’

‘You do want to know the truth, don’t you? About the phalera?’ Tarquitius’ eyes glinted.

‘About my father. . ’ Pavo mouthed numbly. ‘Are you mocking me? What can you tell me of him?’

Tarquitius ignored the plea. ‘Give me more detail on the limitanei. How strongly is Sardica garrisoned? Does Gallus plan to send any more men to bolster the barracks there?’

‘To Hades with Sardica — tell me what you know!’ He said, his voice cracking.

‘Perhaps,’ Tarquitius’ face melted into a vile grin. ‘But only in good time. First, you must accept that you are not to deny me any information I may require.’

Pavo frowned, hatred building in his heart.

‘Otherwise,’ Tarquitius’ face fell sour and his lips curled in a grimace, then he tapped a finger to his temple, ‘the truth will stay in here!’ Tarquitius held his gaze for what felt like an eternity, then he turned to shuffle away towards the fire.

Pavo’s blood ran cold with panic, and he loathed himself for what tumbled from his lips; ‘There is a half cohort in the city, and another century man the fortlets and watchtowers by the river.’

Tarquitius slowed, turning back to Pavo with a sickly grin, his eyes sparkling. ‘Good. . good. Now tell me, when are the garrison due to return to the XI Claudia fort?’

Pavo frowned, shrugging. ‘Whenever a permanent garrison can be founded from the local legions?’

‘Ah,’ Tarquitius said in resignation, ‘not good enough.’ Then he raised his eyebrows and fixed Pavo with a stare that turned his gut. ‘If you want to know what’s up here,’ he tapped his temple again, ‘then you’ll find out the exact day when the garrison is to change over.’ With that, Tarquitius spun to stomp back past the fire and to his tent.

Pavo’s mind reeled as he watched the senator go. Then he looked over to the fire, longing to see a friendly face. But his gaze fell upon Crito; the veteran legionary stared back at him, muttering to his cronies, who looked over at Pavo then laughed. He twisted round and stared out of the camp again, past the palisade and into the fog, his thoughts churning.

‘Pavo?’ Sura said, coming over to him, gnawing at a piece of barely defrosted salted mutton. ‘What did he say to you?’ Sura frowned, casting a glance at Tarquitius’ tent.

Pavo looked to his friend, his mood lightening just a fraction. ‘Just his usual haughty babble — and I’m certain he’s digging himself into trouble again.’

Sura nodded, unconvinced, noticing that Pavo was thumbing at the phalera medallion. ‘And?’

Pavo looked him in the eye. Sura and Felicia were the only two who knew the whole story of that day at the slave market. He issued a weary smile. ‘And something else. I’m not quite sure what, but I’ll have to make sense of it first, before I act on it.’

Sura shrugged, nodding. ‘Then you can think over it while you eat and get warmth into your veins. Come on,’ he beckoned towards the fire.

Pavo gave Sura a weary look. ‘I don’t think my presence will be welcome.’ His eyes traced the line of six goatskin tents and the huddle of veterans and recruits, now sitting as close to the flames as they could get without being singed. Only Salvian the ambassador stood back from the blaze, seemingly drawing warmth enough from a borrowed woollen legionary cloak.

‘Come on,’ Sura pleaded. ‘Just be yourself. They’re too busy trying to sink their wine ration to be bothered giving you any more grief.’

Pavo considered declining the offer, then realised the rim of his helmet was now freezing to his forehead, and relented.

As he shuffled over to the fire, the gruff chatter from Crito and the veterans died, and all eyes turned to him. But, to his relief, the Claudia recruits pushed apart to let him in, one offering up his wineskin. Pavo made to step forward, then hesitated and shook his head. ‘No, you lads have your fill, I’ll get my share later.’ His heart warmed at the grateful nods and grins from them, but then he heard a familiar grumbling from the veterans.

‘Aye, like you haven’t got an officer’s wine ration anyway?’ Crito barked.

Pavo frowned and made to retort, but halted himself. For this mission he was not a member of the ranks, and could not be seen to bicker with the men. Instead, he sought a way to diffuse the ill-feeling. He reached down to his ration pack and fumbled with his numb fingers until he found the wax-coated disc. He had spent a good chunk of his wage on this cheese and had yet to find the opportunity to enjoy it. He walked over to the veterans and held out the round.

‘I’ve got bugger all wine, actually,’ he spoke calmly and with a wry smile. ‘I picked up three skins from the warehouse this morning and it turned out they were all water!’ He glanced around at the veterans, all of whom returned a stony glance. One broke ranks to chuckle at Pavo’s misfortune, but was silenced with a sharp elbow to the ribs. Pavo sighed. ‘Look, there’s enough of this cheese to go round — get our bellies properly full before we sleep?’

A few of the veterans licked their lips at the thought, and one belly rumbled like thunder, but Crito spoke first. ‘Your kind,’ he stabbed a finger at Pavo, ‘are going to be the death of the army and the death of the empire.’

Suddenly, Pavo felt on trial as all eyes turned on him, and only the crackling of the fire sounded. Chattering voices in his mind told him he should be shouting the soldier down for insubordination, but his tongue felt bloated and useless.

‘Boys who have had a nip of blood and think they are heroes,’ Crito continued, his pitted skin and sunken eyes lit from below by the fire. ‘You’ve never seen half the action we have, but you step up in front of us when you should be sat over there,’ he swiped a finger at the recruits, ‘while the real soldiers lead.’

Pavo’s mind reeled. He had been through all of this before and had proved himself to Zosimus, Felix, Quadratus, Avitus and most importantly Gallus. He had been a whisper from death more times than he could remember in that nightmare of a campaign to the Kingdom of Bosporus. And you’ll have to do it all again, he realised, but this time you have to prove to them not that you’re fit to fight with them, but that you’re worthy of leading them. His mind chattered with a thousand voices, each offering opposing advice, then he emitted a weary sigh; ‘Think what you like,’ he spoke flatly. ‘It’s double sentry duty tonight,’ he continued. ‘Finish your rations and settle in your tents. I’ll take first watch. Crito, you’re on shift with me.’ With that, he tossed the cheese round onto the ground by Crito’s legs, then turned and walked back to the edge of the enclosure. There, he pulled his grey woollen cloak tight around his shoulders as the cold crept over him again.

A lone owl hooted from a nearby pine, punctuating the random crackle of the now dying fire. Pavo stood watch by the western gate of the miniature camp. Despite the day’s strength-sapping march, he found little trouble staying awake, the frost settling on his brow and nose in a fine film and the modest heat from the small brazier glowing by his feet barely registering. He glanced over at Crito again; the towering legionary stood watch at the eastern gate, and the only noise he had made was the occasional thunderous fart or serrated belch.

He touched a hand to the phalera medallion and raked over Tarquitius’ words. What truth could the fat reprobate really offer him? From experience, the man was probably just torturing him with some whimsical notion, no doubt invented in the senator’s head. Then he saw the withered, puckered features of the crone once more in his mind’s eye, and shivered. No, her words to Tarquitius had been all too real.

And what would Father think of him now, he mused? From memory, his father had never been a leader of soldiers. Perhaps this was why he too was also ill-suited to such a role. He calculated how many more days of this torture were left and resolved that as soon as they were back in the fortress, he would explain to Lupicinus how he felt and plead to keep his place in the ranks. Then he imagined the prancing fool’s expression and instantly hated himself for being so weak.

‘Bloody idiot!’ He hissed to himself.

‘Being a bit harsh on yourself?’ A voice spoke, right behind him.

Pavo turned, wide-eyed. A silhouetted figure stood there.

‘Relax,’ the figure chuckled, holding up empty hands and walking forward into the faint firelight to reveal keen eyes and sharp features, the mouth lifted at one end in a half-mouthed grin.

‘Ambassador!’ Pavo spluttered in relief. ‘Never creep up on a legionary.’

Salvian cocked an eyebrow. ‘Especially when he’s had a day like you’ve had? And please, call me Salvian.’

Pavo frowned and adopted the serious, distant stare that seemed to be the norm for officers.

Salvian nodded with a sigh and a sparkle in his eyes. ‘You’ve taken a battering over these last few days, Pavo, a real battering. I heard Comes Lupicinus crowing about his military record, then deriding the mission to the Kingdom of Bosporus. Then you’ve had Crito taking every opportunity to destroy you in front of the rest of the men.’

Pavo’s chest burned. So he was being picked on now by this stranger. But before he could retort, Salvian continued;

‘Yet look at you now; still standing, while the rest sleep, having succumbed to weariness. That tells me a lot about you, lad. You have handled the pressure so well.’

Pavo stammered, disarmed by the statement. ‘I. . I could have done better. I’ve led lads younger than me once before, but never veterans like this lot, like Crito.’

Salvian chuckled wryly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder and lowering his voice so the veteran wouldn’t hear. ‘Crito is what most veterans are: grunts who have put their necks in front of countless enemy swords for an empire that treats them like an expendable resource — no wonder he’s a grumpy swine.’

Pavo smirked at this, thinking of Zosimus and Quadratus, both with the tempers of a bear with a ripping hangover. Then he frowned; Zosimus and Quadratus commanded respect despite their gruffness, but Crito seemed spiteful to the core, and this made Pavo uneasy. It was as if the veteran’s challenges to his authority were borne of pure hatred and nothing else. ‘It feels as if I have a rope round my neck when he challenges me, like I want to swallow my own words.’

Salvian issued another half-grin. ‘Ah, yes. Self-doubt is a pox indeed. It plagues me too — more than I care to admit. You’re from the capital, yes?’

‘Constantinople runs in my blood,’ Pavo replied, frowning. ‘What of it?’

‘Well, you’ll know how many pompous bastards call the place their home, pompous bastards who have seemingly been born with an answer to everything.’ Salvian deftly nodded to the tent Tarquitius was sleeping in.

Pavo nodded at this.

‘Well it’s my job to talk with them; debates, negotiations, disputes. Their voices are like war horns and their eyes scrape at my soul as they try to shout me down. My mind screams at me; I’m wrong, and I just want to be out of their gaze, away from the conflict. I feel that noose around my neck, just as you do. But you know what I do? I simply hold their gaze and find silence in my mind, allow myself to think back over my decisions, see the strength of my reasoning. With that, my confidence always returns.’

‘Aye,’ Pavo shrugged, thinking of the pounding heart, the shaking hands and the dry mouth he had felt when Crito and his cronies had all been staring at him in derision, ‘but you need composure for that. When Crito is glaring at me it is all I can do to remember my name, let alone revisit my reasoning.’

Salvian nodded. ‘True, the nerves come into play when we least want them. It’s easily dealt with too,’ the ambassador shrugged. ‘I learned this from an old senator, right before my first public debate: just breathe in through your nose, slowly,’ he spoke, carrying out the action, ‘let the air fill your lungs. . until your belly expands, then hold it. . then exhale through your mouth,’ he whooshed as he breathed out. ‘Your heart will steady and your mind will clear of chatter in moments.’

Pavo smiled again. ‘So calmness is the key?’

‘More often than not. I’ve lost count of the number of times I have outmanoeuvred a red-faced, ranting opponent in the debating chamber. But don’t get me wrong — there are occasions when brute force is the order of the day,’ Salvian continued, ‘just use it sparingly, when the time is right.’

Pavo frowned.

Salvian chuckled, clasping a hand to his shoulder. ‘Ah, me and my advice. Words are all too cheap! Time and experience will bring all this to you. Suffice to say, lad, that I can see in you the makings of a fine leader.’

With this, the ambassador sighed and sat his lithe frame by the brazier, then reached into his hemp satchel and pulled out a crusty round of bread. He tore a piece off and offered it to Pavo.

Pavo took the piece and munched as they chatted. As they talked, he found the biting cold lessening ever so slightly. They discussed their homes and their times in Constantinople. Salvian talked of his old grandmother who lived by the Great Aqueduct and of his adolescent days in the city’s academies. Then he spoke of his trips to the West and the East where he had parleyed with the Franks and the Persians alike — and brought back a selection of those collared eastern tunics as well.

In return, Pavo talked of his time with the legion, his tone light as he remembered some of the good times that had spiced the bloodier ones. Then, he talked of his years of slavery. He spoke edgily at first, but quickly opened up after it became clear that Salvian had already guessed his history with Senator Tarquitius. To his surprise, Pavo found his words flowing as he recounted some of his memories from Tarquitius’ slave cellar.

Salvian had frowned as he summarised his feelings on the matter. ‘No man should be a slave of any other; the very idea is abhorrent. Sometimes I think the empire sees herself as the slavemaster of the world she has conquered, a writhing entity that can control lives and end them as she sees fit.’ Then he looked up to Pavo, his eyes narrowed. ‘Going by what you’ve told me of his treatment of you and his other slaves, Tarquitius is the embodiment of such an ethos?’

Pavo nodded and then they fell silent. There was one topic he had not broached, the topic that would surely deprive him of sleep tonight and for many nights to come.

‘Now, tell me of your family,’ Salvian said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Before those days you spent as a slave.’

‘My mother died giving birth to me,’ he said, his eyes growing distant. ‘My father was a legionary. Lived as one, died as one. I miss him every day,’ he said, flatly. He thumbed at the bronze phalera, then looked the ambassador in the eye. They were only to journey together for a handful of days, so perhaps revealing a little more of his past could be cathartic, he reasoned. ‘This piece is all I have to remind me of him. . ’ he paused, took a deep breath and told Salvian of that day in the slave market; the crone, the phalera.

Everything.

‘By the gods,’ Salvian blinked when Pavo finished. ‘No wonder you treasure that piece so.’ Then he narrowed his eyes. ‘But tell me about him,’ the ambassador nodded. ‘Your father.’

Pavo was hesitant.

But Salvian’s expression was keen and sincere. ‘You know they say that to speak of the dead is to let them live again?’

Pavo smiled at this, then stooped a little to toast a piece of bread on the brazier. ‘Well, there’s not much I can say about him, really. He is only a memory now. But when I was a boy. . ’ Pavo sighed as his throat seemed to contract a little ‘. . I used to live for the days when he would come home on leave. We lived in Constantinople, you see, just down from the Gate of Saint Aemilianus. A room in the tenements was our home; the usual crumbling collection of bricks and timber; to me it was just the place I waited until he returned from campaign. Then we would go out every day, at the crack of dawn. I loved to paddle in the warm waters of the Propontus, just by the southern shore outside the walls. Then we’d eat, and not just a little,’ he realised he was grinning. ‘Father would insist that we spend some of his wage on the best grub on offer. I remember one time well: pheasant, lamb, garum dates, honeyed yoghurt and blueberries, washed down with a jug of watered wine.’ He looked down at the morsel of bread in the flames, brown and crisp around the edges, and chuckled. ‘I can almost smell it and taste it right now.’

He turned to Salvian and was surprised to see the ambassador still regarded him earnestly, hanging on every word.

‘I can hear in your voice how much you miss him,’ Salvian spoke gently. ‘So you are alone in this world?’

Pavo nodded. ‘No, there is Felicia, the woman from the bridge. She and I are close. . at times.’

‘Ah, women,’ Salvian chuckled, ‘it is a struggle to see things as they do at the best of times, Pavo, but that one certainly seemed fierier than most.’

Pavo smirked, then felt a stab of guilt as he glanced back at one of the tents. ‘And Sura has been like a brother to me since I enlisted. Then there are the other lads in the legion, the core that have been part of the Claudia since before my time. Then there is Tribunus Gallus,’ he started, ‘you may take some time to get used to him when you meet him. Despite that iron mask he seems to wear, has guided me well, and I know he has a heart somewhere in there, but. . ’

‘But nobody can compare to your father?’ Salvian finished for him.

Pavo could only nod, unable to meet the ambassador’s eyes, instead scouring the fog.

‘When someone is lost to you, sometimes their memory can drive you on through times of adversity,’ Salvian spoke, his voice even. ‘Sometimes it can shape your entire life.’

Pavo glanced up at him; the ambassador gazed into the dying flames of the brazier, lost in some memory. Pavo frowned. Every man has a story, he mused. Then he thought of Tarquitius and this truth he held.

‘There is something more, though,’ he started, then became suddenly anxious that he would bore the ambassador with the aside.

‘Yes?’ Salvian urged him.

Pavo shook his head. ‘It is late and it is only going to get colder. You should get into your tent and get wrapped up before the worst of it comes.’

At just that moment, a triple volley of thundering farts sounded from the tent nearest them. Pavo winced as he realised it was the tent Salvian was supposed to be sharing.

Salvian half-grinned. ‘I think I’d be in more danger in there than out here, thank you. I’ve never been one for much sleep anyway. Now come on, tell me what is on your mind. We are to part in a few days when we reach Wodinscomba, so what harm is there in sharing our problems?’

Pavo shrugged. ‘It’s nothing really, well that’s just the problem — I don’t know if it’s nothing. It’s Senator Tarquitius,’ he nodded to Salvian.

‘Ah, yes, my mentor,’ Salvian rolled his eyes. ‘I should have guessed he was still troubling you. Tell me, what has he done?’

‘The man has no shame, it would seem, in any of his dealings. But now he is dangling some notion that he knows something, something about my father.’

‘How could that be?’ Salvian frowned, thinking back over their chat. Then he clicked his fingers, his eyes sparkling. ‘Ah! The crone, from the market?’

Pavo nodded his head and shrugged.

‘And he hasn’t told you what he knows?’ Salvian asked.

Pavo looked up with a sardonic expression.

Salvian nodded in embarrassment. ‘Of course he hasn’t. Sorry, carry on.’

‘He wants me to betray my legion. If it was for some small embezzlement or the like, I would not be so troubled by it — but he has a dubious track record; whenever he dabbles, blood is spilled. So I have a choice; to betray my legion and discover a truth that has evaded me since I was a boy, or to uphold my honour and deny myself that precious knowledge.’

They sat in silence for a moment, then Salvian sighed. ‘I do not envy you, Pavo. But know this; men face difficult decisions every day, and the merit of their choices only becomes clear once the consequences unfold. You cannot see what lies ahead, so do not agonise over what might come of your actions. If you choose well, you are blessed; if you choose poorly, you will be stronger for it. Consider this, though; you have spent your life serving first a slavemaster and then the empire. Perhaps it is time to serve yourself?’

Pavo latched onto the suggestion. With this hint of encouragement he felt none of the guilt that he had previously when contemplating the senator’s proposal. Then he noticed that Salvian was lost in thought, nodding as he mulled over his own words. Pavo sighed, smiling. ‘Bet you thought you would get some light-hearted legionary banter out of me?’

Salvian snapped out of his trance, turning to Pavo with a half-grin. ‘Aye, lad. Athanaric may prove to be a pussycat in comparison!’

Pavo chuckled at this.

Then, with a crunching of boots on frosted ground, Crito marched up behind them and affixed Pavo with a scowl. ‘Right, that’s my watch over, sir!’ The last word was spat rather than spoken.

Salvian and Pavo spun round to see the gruff legionary pull back a tent flap then hiss inside to the two recruits nearest the entrance. ‘Right, shift’s up, rise and shine.’ Then he swung a boot into the tent, prompting a high-pitched yelp from the young soldier on the end of it. With a chorus of swearing and muffled apologies, two recruits stumbled out into the night, shivering.

‘Until the morning, sir!’ Crito barked, gazing over Pavo’s shoulder.

Pavo nodded sternly to Crito, considered giving him a word of encouragement, then saw the sneer frozen across the man’s face. ‘Fall out, soldier!’ He barked.

Pavo walked with Salvian to the tents.

‘We’ll talk again tomorrow,’ Salvian nodded with a half-grin, ‘sir!’

‘Until tomorrow,’ Pavo smiled.

Noon on the eighth day of their march saw Pavo’s column break free of the silver-shrouded forest and onto the grasslands of Gutthiuda. The fog had lifted, the sky was cornflower blue and unblemished and a fresh winter chill hung on the still air. The tall grass stretched for miles ahead, coated in frost and punctuated only by thatch-roofed Gothic farms loyal to Fritigern, smoke puffing from their chimneys. Wodinscomba was only a short march from here, and then the Gothic village of Istrita was another half a days’ march to the north, around the mountains.

Pavo heard Crito strike up a song in praise of Mithras as they pushed through the grass, then two others joined in. There had been something of a lift in the mood of his fifty, a sense of unity. Perhaps it was down to breaking free of the oppressive forest and having a clear vista in every direction for miles, he mused. Then his gaze fell upon the black-grey jagged peaks of the Carpates, lining the horizon to the west; perhaps it was to disguise anxiety. Regardless, it was a blessed relief from the earlier part of the march.

‘What’s got into them?’ Sura asked, nodding to the singing veterans, keeping his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen Crito crack a smile.’

Pavo nodded, glancing back to see the veteran’s cheeks reddening as he belted out the words to the song with gusto.

‘You reckon we can rely on him, if there’s trouble in Istrita?’ Sura asked. ‘He’s got a reputation as a fine soldier, but. . ’ His words trailed off as he sucked in a breath through his teeth and shook his head.

Pavo made to reply with his misgivings about the older legionary, then he saw Salvian had drawn level on his mount and was listening in. The ambassador didn’t say anything, but he gave Pavo a knowing look, and Pavo couldn’t help but smile as he remembered their chats over the last few nights. ‘I suppose you have to credit Crito for having served under Lupicinus for Mithras knows how many years without wringing the man’s neck. Aye, the man has his flaws, but we all have, eh?’

Sura cocked an eyebrow, then grinned as Salvian dropped back a little. ‘I see the ambassador has been filling your head with the one-liners.’

‘It’s nothing. He’s just trying to help, to give me a bit of encouragement.’

‘Smooth talker, that one,’ Sura shrugged, then grinned. ‘Just hope he’s not after your arse.’

Pavo chuckled despite himself at this. ‘You’ve got a way with words yourself, haven’t you?’

‘Finest orator in Adrianople,’ Sura replied, bemused. ‘I was a herald for a couple of weeks you know, had to carry and read messages to the garrison.’ Then he frowned, shaking his head. ‘Then they let me go — all because of one spilt skin of wine. . and a hundred ruined scrolls.’

Pavo chuckled and then looked his friend in the eye. ‘I’m glad they did; for now I have you by my side, out here.’

Sura made to reply, then simply slapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Always,’ he grinned, then turned to rouse the rest of the legionaries into the chorus of Crito’s song.

They marched on until the tink-tink of a hammer striking a nail drew their gaze to one Gothic farmstead: a flame-haired man worked with his boys to erect a fencepost near their thatch-roofed stallhouse, the bleating goats and sheep nearby watching on.

After a while though, the land grew more barren, the settlements thinned and the sky dulled as grey cloud gathered. Pavo examined the trail up ahead. It wound through the patchy grass and then seemed to disappear into a drop in the land between two rocky rises, pricked with decaying tree stumps.

And there were jagged, spindly shapes fixed to the stumps.

Pavo squinted to see what the shapes were, then his face stiffened when he saw them; skeletons, arms splayed wide, nailed to the trunks, the skulls etched with lifeless grins. Gothic warriors, he realised, judging by the rotting, rusting garb that clung to their bones. These would be either sacrifices to Wodin or warnings from Fritigern and Athanaric to any warrior who dared to cross into opposing territory. He realised that the legionary song had fallen into silence.

‘Wodinscomba?’ Sura asked, his voice tight.

‘Aye,’ Pavo replied, eyes fixed on the skeletons.

Then something moved, up by one of the rotting trunks; his heart leapt and the fifty behind him rippled in alarm. But then he saw the glinting intercisa helmet and mail shirt the figure wore. At that moment, another such figure climbed up onto the other side of the hollow, waving. Pavo’s heart soared at the sight of the two legionaries. ‘Up ahead, lads; Tribunus Gallus and his men are waiting on us.’

At this, the recruits of the fifty roared in relief and approval and even some of Crito’s cronies joined in despite themselves. Pavo could not suppress a chuckle as one of them tried to disguise his cries by breaking down in a coughing fit.

The trail became ever more strewn with rubble as they descended between the two rocky rises and into the hollow. He turned to Sura. ‘Make sure the lads at the back are in good formation — I don’t think they’d appreciate a bollocking from Gallus.’

‘Aye,’ Sura replied, dropping back, ‘leave it with me’.

Then, as Sura barked to the legionaries, another voice spoke beside him. ‘You’re getting the hang of this,’ Salvian said, ‘and enjoying it, going by the look on your face?’

Pavo disguised his smile. ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt it’s only temporary. I might not be smiling when faced with a thousand spears at Istrita,’ he said.

Salvian laughed. ‘The veneer of the officer; you’re learning fast, Pavo.’

Pavo offered him a sincere nod, then smiled.

‘And don’t let any setbacks knock your self-belief, lad,’ Salvian continued, his voice quieter now so only Pavo could hear. ‘Remember that you’ve got what it takes. Lupicinus put you out here because he thinks you will fail, and he wants you to prove him right. Do you know why?’

Pavo sighed. ‘Because he hates me?’

Salvian shook his head. ‘He doesn’t even know you, lad. No, it’s because he hates himself. He knows he would fail were he out here as a young lad at the head of a group of grizzled veterans. I may not be a man of the sword, but I have heard much of the empire’s commanders at the many feasts and talks I have attended. Lupicinus’ early military record is not one to be proud of; he turned tail and fled from the battlefield in his first encounter with the Goths. Then there were tales of how he would use his men as human shields, sending cohorts to their deaths to save his own skin. Nothing was ever proven, of course. But you have seen the bullying veneer he employs today, and that is now his shield. I don’t know what made him this way, Pavo, but something in his youth must have pickled his soul in vinegar and skewed his motives.’

Pavo looked up at the ambassador. He nodded, then faced forward again, acutely aware of an odd feeling in his gut; pity for Lupicinus.

Salvian sighed. ‘Anyway, talking of such characters, I’d better fall back to ride alongside my mentor.’

Pavo nodded in appreciation. ‘You’re a good man, ambassador. I hope we meet again. But be careful around the senator; for all his bumbling and blabbering, he’s a snake.’

Salvian’s features remained sincere. ‘One of many, lad, one of many.’ With that, he pulled on his mount’s reins and fell back to the rear of the column.

Pavo was alone at the front again, and he allowed himself to smile once more. One more precious good friend in this world, he thought. Then a cry from a familiar voice split the air. ‘Ave!’

Pavo glanced up; the hollow was littered with familiar faces from the XI Claudia. The mail vested legionaries were sitting on the inner slopes of the hollow. They had downed their helmets, spears and shields and were hungrily devouring hardtack, salted beef and cheese. One the size of a bull strode forward, a crooked grin etched between his anvil of a jaw and his squashed nose.

‘Mithras! We must be down to the bare bones if they sent you out,’ Zosimus jibed then thrust out an arm.

Pavo clasped his hand to the big man’s forearm. ‘Some could say they sent us to save your skins,’ he joked back.

‘You’d have trouble wiping your own arse, soldier,’ another voice called out. Felix, the fork-bearded Primus Pilus cast a stern gaze on Pavo, then flashed a wicked grin.

Then the pair stood to one side to reveal Tribunus Gallus.

Pavo didn’t even consider holding out an arm, instead he stamped both feet into the rocky ground and threw a hand up in salute. ‘Vexillatio reporting as per rendezvous instructions, sir!’

He stared just past the shoulder of Gallus, but could sense the gaunt and wolf-like features examining him and his fifty. It was a look he had so often mistaken for hatred in his early days as a recruit, but had come to realise that it was just the man’s way. Gallus didn’t do banter, didn’t deal in emotions. A good heart lay inside, but he was pure iron on the outside.

‘Legionary,’ Gallus said, eyeing the fifty in Pavo’s wake, ‘or should I call you. . Optio, or Centurion?’

‘Legionary will do just fine, sir, this is just an informal vexillatio. As you have probably guessed, we’re more stretched than ever at the fort.’

‘Then you’ll do well to make haste back there as soon as you’ve dropped off this ambassadorial party. . ’ Gallus’ words slowed as he looked over Pavo’s shoulder, eyeing the two figures on horseback, ambling in with the rest of Pavo’s column. ‘In the name of Mithras, no! Tarquitius?’

Pavo could only nod. ‘It came as quite a shock to me too, sir, I can tell you.’

‘We meet again, Gallus,’ Tarquitius spoke with his usual cloying tone.

‘All too soon,’ Gallus muttered in reply.

‘Pardon?’ Tarquitius said, frowning.

‘And not a moment too soon!’ Gallus spoke clearly this time. Then he turned to behold Salvian, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. ‘And you are?’

Pavo knew that look — the same look Gallus had cast at him on their first meeting, nearly a year ago, when Pavo lay in the fort jail. The gaze reeked of mistrust and seemed to scour deep into its recipient’s soul. Pavo wished at that moment he could tell Gallus of Salvian’s good heart and nature, but knew that any trust from Gallus had to be earned. Hard-earned.

Tarquitius cut in before Salvian could reply. ‘Ambassador Salvian has been schooled by the finest minds in the capital, trained in the arts of rhetoric, philosophy and diplomacy. Now he approaches the completion of his training, under my tutelage.’

‘Unlucky bastard!’ Pavo heard Zosimus mutter under his breath. At this, Tarquitius shot the big centurion an icy glare. But, before anyone else could speak, Salvian slipped from his saddle to stand before Gallus.

‘Tribunus Gallus,’ he saluted, ‘Ambassador Salvian. The sight of your column here warms my heart. I was wary that the rider may not have been able to find you out here in these vast plains and hills.’

Pavo watched as Gallus scrutinised Salvian’s sincere expression and basic garb. The tribunus’ expression softened for a heartbeat, then grew stern once more. ‘The rider was frozen and bleeding,’ Gallus said, ‘he rode like a centaur to find us; you should have more faith, Ambassador. Equally, I knew the men of my legion would escort you to us safely.’

Salvian nodded sincerely. ‘They marched well because they were led well.’

Pavo’s chest bristled with pride, and it was all he could do not to show it.

‘Aye,’ Gallus mused, rubbing his chin as he beheld Salvian, ‘a master of rhetoric indeed. . ’

Salvian leaned a little closer to Gallus and issued a half-mouthed grin, nodding almost imperceptibly towards the senator. ‘Those are his words, not mine. I value some of the teachings of my grandmother more highly than the endlessly-flowing verbal effluent of the pompous togas in the capital.’

Pavo watched as Gallus’ gaze remained flinty. Then, for a heartbeat, the tribunus’ lips twisted up at the edges into a faint smile. It had taken Pavo the best part of six months to elicit such a response from the man.

‘What was that?’ Tarquitius squawked, leaning forward in his saddle.

‘Right!’ Gallus shouted, pretending not to hear the senator. ‘There is a Gothic Iudex to be calmed, not half a days’ march from here. We march immediately. Then Pavo and his men need to make haste back to the fort.’ He spun to Pavo and Sura. ‘But be on your guard, for rebel riders are roaming these lands.’

Words of correction spilled into Pavo’s throat, but he caught them just in time — experience had taught him it was folly to talk over an officer, especially this one. Then, as the two hundred and forty legionaries formed up into a marching column, aided by Felix’s bellowing orders, Pavo sidled up to Gallus.

‘Sir, we’re not going back to the fort.’ He said as the tribunus made to mount his fawn stallion.

Gallus froze, one arm across the saddle. ‘Tell me this is a joke, soldier.’

Pavo forced himself to maintain eye contact with the Tribunus. ‘I wish it was, sir. It’s another disturbance, north of here, around the mountains. Istrita.’

‘Rebels?’

‘Aye. Quadratus was adamant that we should follow your advisory orders and bed in until we had more available manpower, but. . ’

Gallus held up a hand to stop him. ‘But Lupicinus knew better.’

Pavo nodded.

Gallus shook his head, his gaze tracing the frosted rubble underfoot. Then he looked to Pavo, his ice-blue stare intense. ‘All these vexillationes out here, scattered and far from home.’ He looked up, across the horizon. ‘Go to the village, sort out the mess there, and then get back to the fort, Pavo. But by Mithras do it fast. For I fear there is a snake in the grass, and out here,’ his expression darkened as he scanned the plain behind Pavo, ‘we are in its sights.’