Legionary: Viper of the North by Gordon Doherty Page A

goatskin and timber tent packs doubling their burden. Despite this they were marching in perfect time and formation and Crito was probably the finest example. Pavo’s lips trembled as he tried to think of a line that would clarify his order, something that wouldn’t sound cloying to the veterans. But too much time passed and the moment was gone.
     
    They came to the bridgehead. There, four legionaries manned the castrum and another two milled around the giant ballista, all stamping their feet and blowing into their hands for heat. Pavo slowed and saluted, just as the vexillatio had done yesterday. ‘Vexillatio, coming through,’ he called to the sentries.
     
    They straightened and saluted. Then, on seeing that no centurion or true officer marched at their head, they slumped. ‘Another vexillatio? Is there anyone left in the fort?’ One groaned, his words tinged with anxiety.
     
    Pavo marched past in silence, but he heard the men of his column exchanging gripes about the situation. In the flurry of muttering and whispers, he was sure he could hear his name being mentioned in acid tones. His skin burned. He glanced up to see Tarquitius’ eyes fixed upon him, revelling in his ex-slave’s discomfort. Then he looked to his side to see Salvian the ambassador watching him with that earnest expression. Probably shocked by the mumbling boy who’s been tasked with protecting him , he mused, turning to study the ground in front of him again. Then, a nudge from Sura pulled him from his own self-loathing.
     
    ‘Rider approaching!’ His friend cried. Then, after a double-take at Pavo’s foul expression, he added; ‘Sir!’
     
    Pavo peered to the west. There, bathed in orange from the rising sun, the town of Durostorum shimmered. From the town a cloaked, hooded rider approached, dirt spraying in its wake. He squinted as the figure neared, then a warm realisation grew in his heart.
     
    Felicia .
     
    Her riding style was unmistakable – it was just as he had taught her and just as he himself had learned in this last year. ‘At ease,’ he called as he heard sword hilts being gripped behind him.
     
    ‘Ave,’ she called, reining the grey mare to a stop by the head of the column. Then she lifted down the black hemp hood to reveal milk-white and delicate features, blue eyes and tumbling amber locks.
     
    ‘Felicia,’ Pavo said, stepping forward, hoping to obscure his ridiculous grin from the fifty. She looked not only beautiful, but fresh too. All that was missing was a smile. ‘I’ve been to the inn three times in the last week and every time you’ve been elsewhere. Now I find you out here, galloping at dawn near the fort?’
     
    ‘You sound like my father,’ she replied dismissively.
     
    Pavo sighed. ‘When will I see you again, properly?’
     
    ‘When you return from Gutthiuda, presumably,’ she replied matter-of-factly. Then she slid from her mount and stood close to him, taking his hands. But she was looking over his shoulder, scanning the fifty with a wrinkle on her nose. ‘So . . . the rest of your contubernium – they are not with you?’
     
    He frowned. Why should she care about them? Then he pulled her a little closer. But she continued to avoid his gaze. ‘Felicia, what is this about?’ He asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer. Ever since he had met her, she had flitted between two personalities: one, a vivacious young lady; the other, a driven, distant woman, far older than her other self. At first he had been confused by her changes in mood. Then he had noticed that these changes came about whenever there was mention of her older brother, Curtius, who used to serve in the ranks of the Claudia. Curtius had died in service and his death was shrouded in mystery and rumour. Pavo could have well understood her sorrow, but not the determination and steel that seemed to overcome her when the subject was raised.
     
    She looked to him. ‘Pavo,’ she smiled, but it was a cheerless smile,