Legionary: Viper of the North by Gordon Doherty Page B
Authors: Gordon Doherty
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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‘when we talk again, I hope all of this will be over.’ With that, she pressed her lips to his.
Pavo felt her tears blot against his cheek, but when he opened his eyes, she had already pulled away to her mare. Then she hoisted herself into the saddle, heeled the mount and cried; ‘Ya!’ With that, she was a hooded rider again shrinking as she galloped back to Durostorum. Pavo’s eyes hung on her wake, his thoughts spinning.
‘Er . . . Pavo?’ Sura whispered beside him.
Pavo blinked, then spun to the fifty. The veterans wore filthy scowls on their faces. Tarquitius examined his fingernails and over-officiously cleared his throat.
‘Bollocking us for formation while he stops to chat with a bit of pussy,’ one veteran grumbled, nudging Crito with his elbow. But the sunken-eyed legionary simply glared at Pavo, then offered a trademark sneer when Pavo tried to hold eye contact.
At this, Pavo’s neck burned. He gulped to find composure and stabbed out his tongue to moisten his lips. The grumbling of the veterans grew, some relaxing out of marching posture and formation, shaking their heads. Sura’s brow was knitted in concern and Pavo was sure at that moment that the best thing would be to hand command over to his friend. But then, Salvian the ambassador looked at him, his expression sincere, and then he gave Pavo the faintest of nods, a hint of a smile touching one edge of his mouth.
It was nothing and everything, a drop of encouragement into his pool of despair. He squared his shoulders, pushed his chest out, steeled his expression and sucked in a lungful of air.
‘Did I give you permission to fall out? Get back into formation!’ He roared.
The men hesitated for a moment, and Pavo’s heart seemed to freeze. But, at last, they tightened up into marching formation, though still grumbling. He spun round to face front and, knowing they could no longer see his face, exhaled in utter relief.
Then they set off, boots drumming on the timbers of the pontoon bridge. He noticed that Salvian had rode level with him and he offered the ambassador a brisk nod of thanks.
Fifty two men, he mused, glancing to Sura and Salvian, and only two would piss in my mouth if my teeth were on fire.
Chapter 3
Over central Gutthiuda, the sky was an unbroken blue, the land was speckled silver with frost, and the tang of woodsmoke and roasting boar spiced the air. Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Felix crouched in the tall grass by a small spruce thicket, examining the nearby Gothic farming settlement. The settlement consisted of a cluster of thatch-roofed stallhouses and a barn, where Gothic families tended to their chickens and goats. All this was set before the backdrop of the grey-black, jagged basalt peaks of the Carpates Mountains, rising from the end of the plain like fangs to mark the edge of Fritigern’s territory and the start of Athanaric’s dominion, the dark side of Gutthiuda.
Gallus scoured the land around the settlement, his breath clouding before him, his gaunt features drawn and his ice-blue eyes narrowing on every hint of movement. One hand rested on his plumed intercisa, by his side, and he ran the fingers of the other through his dark, grey-flecked peak of hair before reaching down to thumb the small, wooden idol of Mithras in his purse. Silently, he prayed to the god of the legions for two things; glory and death. To lead his men well and meet an honourable end would be perfect. For only death could reunite him with her. Olivia.
‘Sir?’ Felix nudged him, pointing to the north.
Gallus blinked, angry with himself for allowing dark emotion to cloud his thoughts. He turned to his primus pilus; the little Greek stroked his forked beard and screwed up his eyes as the tall grass across the plain rippled briefly. Then a lone rider burst onto the plain.
The pair tensed, readying to run for their mounts, tethered in the trees nearby. Then
Pavo felt her tears blot against his cheek, but when he opened his eyes, she had already pulled away to her mare. Then she hoisted herself into the saddle, heeled the mount and cried; ‘Ya!’ With that, she was a hooded rider again shrinking as she galloped back to Durostorum. Pavo’s eyes hung on her wake, his thoughts spinning.
‘Er . . . Pavo?’ Sura whispered beside him.
Pavo blinked, then spun to the fifty. The veterans wore filthy scowls on their faces. Tarquitius examined his fingernails and over-officiously cleared his throat.
‘Bollocking us for formation while he stops to chat with a bit of pussy,’ one veteran grumbled, nudging Crito with his elbow. But the sunken-eyed legionary simply glared at Pavo, then offered a trademark sneer when Pavo tried to hold eye contact.
At this, Pavo’s neck burned. He gulped to find composure and stabbed out his tongue to moisten his lips. The grumbling of the veterans grew, some relaxing out of marching posture and formation, shaking their heads. Sura’s brow was knitted in concern and Pavo was sure at that moment that the best thing would be to hand command over to his friend. But then, Salvian the ambassador looked at him, his expression sincere, and then he gave Pavo the faintest of nods, a hint of a smile touching one edge of his mouth.
It was nothing and everything, a drop of encouragement into his pool of despair. He squared his shoulders, pushed his chest out, steeled his expression and sucked in a lungful of air.
‘Did I give you permission to fall out? Get back into formation!’ He roared.
The men hesitated for a moment, and Pavo’s heart seemed to freeze. But, at last, they tightened up into marching formation, though still grumbling. He spun round to face front and, knowing they could no longer see his face, exhaled in utter relief.
Then they set off, boots drumming on the timbers of the pontoon bridge. He noticed that Salvian had rode level with him and he offered the ambassador a brisk nod of thanks.
Fifty two men, he mused, glancing to Sura and Salvian, and only two would piss in my mouth if my teeth were on fire.
Chapter 3
Over central Gutthiuda, the sky was an unbroken blue, the land was speckled silver with frost, and the tang of woodsmoke and roasting boar spiced the air. Tribunus Gallus and Primus Pilus Felix crouched in the tall grass by a small spruce thicket, examining the nearby Gothic farming settlement. The settlement consisted of a cluster of thatch-roofed stallhouses and a barn, where Gothic families tended to their chickens and goats. All this was set before the backdrop of the grey-black, jagged basalt peaks of the Carpates Mountains, rising from the end of the plain like fangs to mark the edge of Fritigern’s territory and the start of Athanaric’s dominion, the dark side of Gutthiuda.
Gallus scoured the land around the settlement, his breath clouding before him, his gaunt features drawn and his ice-blue eyes narrowing on every hint of movement. One hand rested on his plumed intercisa, by his side, and he ran the fingers of the other through his dark, grey-flecked peak of hair before reaching down to thumb the small, wooden idol of Mithras in his purse. Silently, he prayed to the god of the legions for two things; glory and death. To lead his men well and meet an honourable end would be perfect. For only death could reunite him with her. Olivia.
‘Sir?’ Felix nudged him, pointing to the north.
Gallus blinked, angry with himself for allowing dark emotion to cloud his thoughts. He turned to his primus pilus; the little Greek stroked his forked beard and screwed up his eyes as the tall grass across the plain rippled briefly. Then a lone rider burst onto the plain.
The pair tensed, readying to run for their mounts, tethered in the trees nearby. Then