Legionary: Viper of the North by Gordon Doherty

and the ambassadors to return?’
     
    Lupicinus sighed. ‘Were my orders not clear enough for you, soldier? Make haste to Wodinscomba. Then, as soon as you have rendezvoused, you get your fifty to Istrita . . . and leave the thinking for the real officers and nobles.’
     
    Pavo gulped back the urge to snort at this latest arrogant blast. Instead, he saluted, gazed to the horizon, channelled the anger into his lungs, and bellowed with all his might; ‘Yes, sir! ’ Lupicinus and Tarquitius flinched at his blast before correcting their stances. Ambassador Salvian barely disguised a smirk at this.
     
    Pavo instantly liked the man.
     

     

     

     
    The gates of the fortress clunked shut and the fifty set off for the pontoon bridge. They moved at a quick march, two abreast with Salvian riding on a white gelding by their left flank and the copious burden of Tarquitius just behind on an unfortunate black stallion. They passed through a pool of thick, freezing fog that clung to a dip in the hinterland and then crested the clear, frosted ground by the training field, sparkling in the breaking dawn.
     
    Up front, Pavo’s breath clouded before him, his lips and nostrils stinging from the cold. Before leaving the fort, they had paused only to throw down some hastily cooked millet porridge and to wash it down with icy water. While the rest had gulped down their meal, Pavo had barely managed to eat half of his ration, his gut churning with anxiety. His thoughts danced with taunting self-doubt and the image of the fifty and Tarquitius scowling at him – or worse, laughing at him – from behind.
     
    He glanced to Sura, by his side; Sura had stuck by him resolutely in his time with the legion. For a moment, a glow of optimism grew in his belly when he thought of Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Felix marching side by side like this.
     
    Then he shot a look over his shoulder, not for too long as he didn’t want to arouse mistrust in his men. From his snatched glance, he could see that the comitatenses at the front of the fifty marched well, in formation and at a good pace; Lupicinus’ legionaries were obviously well-drilled soldiers. But then there was the handful to the rear – the Claudia recruits; they were ragged, some falling back or marching wide of the column – only to be expected given that they only had a few weeks of legionary life under their belts. He remembered his own fledgling days when a quick march felt like outright torture. It was not so much the pace, but the relentless endurance required to keep it up for ten hours or more every day, especially when laden with the full marching kit: earth shifting basket, hand axe, pickaxe and sickle together with several water skins, a soured wineskin, wraps of hardtack biscuits, millet grain and salted mutton, all pulling at the shoulders. And then there was the mail-shirt, digging into the skin, whilst boots scraped on ankles and helmets chafed on scalps, not to mention the crux of the legionary kit: the spatha sword, hasta spear and the weighty legionary shield.
     
    Despite this, he felt sure they needed a stern word to bring them into formation, but then doubts crept into his thoughts again; would they see it as overly heavy-handed? They were only a quarter mile from the fort after all. No, he affirmed, marching in formation was crucial for the swiftness of the mission. And potentially, he reasoned, for their survival. He would do it for his own good and theirs.
     
    ‘Keep it tighter,’ he roared, then took a breath and turned to finish his sentence; tighter at the back! But before he could finish, a voice cut him off from just behind.
     
    ‘If you think you can march better than us, then drop back here and carry one of these,’ Crito grumbled. The rest of the older men muttered in agreement at this.
     
    Pavo fell silent as he glanced at the veterans. They were laden not only with their kit and ration packs, but also – in lieu of pack mules – with the