Read Online Legionary: Viper of the North by Gordon Doherty - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gordon Doherty
Tags: Fiction, Historical
Ads: Link
some two hundred feet south of the farm settlement. ‘First century, forward!’
Then, like an iron asp, the one hundred and sixty men of the first cohort, first century rose from the tall grass. They had been decked out in the precious remainder of unblemished armour: mail vests over fresh white, purple-edged woollen tunics – with their linen spares underneath to fend off the chill – and woollen, ruby cloaks. They carried freshly painted ruby and gold shields and spathas, spears and plumbatae – the lead weighted darts clipped in to the rear of their shields. The iron fins of their helmets split the tall grass like a school of sharks as they marched forward.
‘And let them know who we are!’ Gallus cried. As he and Felix heeled their mounts into a canter and then a gallop around the flank of the approaching riders, his skin rippled with pride as he heard the baritone roar of the legionaries, backed by the smashing of sword hilts on shield bosses.
‘They know all right!’ Felix cackled.
Gallus looked over to see the hundred Gothic riders’ charge faltering, more than half having halted altogether, heads looking this way and that at this unexpected appearance of the legion. ‘Ya!’ he roared, squeezing his heels into his stallion’s flanks.
‘They’re turning, sir, they’re turning around!’ Felix bellowed over the chill rush of air and hoofbeats.
‘Then let’s make sure they turn in to the valley!’ Gallus cried back.
As the first century marched on at a jog, Gallus and Felix galloped round to the north until they were within a few hundred paces of the rebel Goths. Here, just as Gallus had hoped, the rebel riders had reached a forking in the flat land ahead; one path led to the northeast and the forests, the other led into the winding valleys that hugged the base of the Carpates. And if Athanaric has anything to do with this, then they’ll stay close to his beloved mountains. As the Goths veered left and into the valley, his eyes narrowed. It was time to find out who these rogues were.
He turned to Felix. ‘You think he will be ready for them?’
Felix nodded. ‘Zosimus? Aye, ready and eager, as always.’
Gallus turned back to the valley. ‘Then send up the fire signal.’
A felled spruce trunk was balanced precariously on the eastern ridge of the valley. Behind it, Centurion Zosimus lay prone in the frozen grass. He shivered as he chewed on a strip of salt beef, then rubbed at his anvil of a jaw, numb from the cold, then wrinkled his battered nose as he watched the mouth of the pass.
Still nothing .
The forty men of his century lying alongside him had remained quiet in this frozen wilderness, but he could sense their frustration growing. He glanced across to the opposite ridge and the spruce trunk balanced there; the other forty of his century behind it were no doubt grumbling unchecked over there.
Then his optio, Paulus, broke the silence. ‘If the tribunus is wrong about this, sir, we could be waiting here all day in the frozen grass,’ he mused, squinting up at the winter morning sun, scratching at his bearded chin.
‘The tribunus is never wrong,’ Zosimus cast his optio a dark look. He waited until Paulus’ features paled, then grinned; ‘or so he would have you believe.’
Paulus reflected his centurion’s grin.
Zosimus sighed. ‘Look, I know how you’re all feeling: I can barely feel my own arse anymore, but here, pass this around,’ Zosimus lifted up his wineskin, then fell silent, realising it was already empty. His face fell into a scowl once more as he threw it down, then muttered; ‘I just hope Fritigern appreciates all we’re doing for him. Marching around a bloody frozen Hades to catch the men his lot should be dealing with . . . ’
His words trailed off when an orange streak sped into the sky from the plains beyond. Then his eyes grew wide as they fell from the fiery
Then, like an iron asp, the one hundred and sixty men of the first cohort, first century rose from the tall grass. They had been decked out in the precious remainder of unblemished armour: mail vests over fresh white, purple-edged woollen tunics – with their linen spares underneath to fend off the chill – and woollen, ruby cloaks. They carried freshly painted ruby and gold shields and spathas, spears and plumbatae – the lead weighted darts clipped in to the rear of their shields. The iron fins of their helmets split the tall grass like a school of sharks as they marched forward.
‘And let them know who we are!’ Gallus cried. As he and Felix heeled their mounts into a canter and then a gallop around the flank of the approaching riders, his skin rippled with pride as he heard the baritone roar of the legionaries, backed by the smashing of sword hilts on shield bosses.
‘They know all right!’ Felix cackled.
Gallus looked over to see the hundred Gothic riders’ charge faltering, more than half having halted altogether, heads looking this way and that at this unexpected appearance of the legion. ‘Ya!’ he roared, squeezing his heels into his stallion’s flanks.
‘They’re turning, sir, they’re turning around!’ Felix bellowed over the chill rush of air and hoofbeats.
‘Then let’s make sure they turn in to the valley!’ Gallus cried back.
As the first century marched on at a jog, Gallus and Felix galloped round to the north until they were within a few hundred paces of the rebel Goths. Here, just as Gallus had hoped, the rebel riders had reached a forking in the flat land ahead; one path led to the northeast and the forests, the other led into the winding valleys that hugged the base of the Carpates. And if Athanaric has anything to do with this, then they’ll stay close to his beloved mountains. As the Goths veered left and into the valley, his eyes narrowed. It was time to find out who these rogues were.
He turned to Felix. ‘You think he will be ready for them?’
Felix nodded. ‘Zosimus? Aye, ready and eager, as always.’
Gallus turned back to the valley. ‘Then send up the fire signal.’
A felled spruce trunk was balanced precariously on the eastern ridge of the valley. Behind it, Centurion Zosimus lay prone in the frozen grass. He shivered as he chewed on a strip of salt beef, then rubbed at his anvil of a jaw, numb from the cold, then wrinkled his battered nose as he watched the mouth of the pass.
Still nothing .
The forty men of his century lying alongside him had remained quiet in this frozen wilderness, but he could sense their frustration growing. He glanced across to the opposite ridge and the spruce trunk balanced there; the other forty of his century behind it were no doubt grumbling unchecked over there.
Then his optio, Paulus, broke the silence. ‘If the tribunus is wrong about this, sir, we could be waiting here all day in the frozen grass,’ he mused, squinting up at the winter morning sun, scratching at his bearded chin.
‘The tribunus is never wrong,’ Zosimus cast his optio a dark look. He waited until Paulus’ features paled, then grinned; ‘or so he would have you believe.’
Paulus reflected his centurion’s grin.
Zosimus sighed. ‘Look, I know how you’re all feeling: I can barely feel my own arse anymore, but here, pass this around,’ Zosimus lifted up his wineskin, then fell silent, realising it was already empty. His face fell into a scowl once more as he threw it down, then muttered; ‘I just hope Fritigern appreciates all we’re doing for him. Marching around a bloody frozen Hades to catch the men his lot should be dealing with . . . ’
His words trailed off when an orange streak sped into the sky from the plains beyond. Then his eyes grew wide as they fell from the fiery
Similar Books
