Hunting the Eagles

  ‘At least the matter has been dealt with,’ said Germanicus, echoing Tullus’ thoughts. He led the way up one of the sets of stairs that provided access to the walkway that ran along the battlements. Everyone clattered up behind him.

  Tullus leaned against the top of the wall and looked east, as Germanicus was doing. It was a familiar view. Beyond the deep defensive ditch, a gentle, grass-covered slope led down the hill upon which Vetera was built. At its bottom lay an irregular pattern of farmers’ fields. Small houses and barns were dotted here and there, but what caught the eye most was the wide silver band of the River Rhenus.

  Once the far side had been familiar tramping grounds, but since the massacre in the forest, Roman troops seldom crossed the river. Tullus had last done so more than twelve months before, and that had only been a probing patrol that stopped a few miles from the bridge. Some soldiers were content with this, although many others felt the need to reassert the empire’s dominance, even men like Cordus and Victor. To campaign on the far bank was a burning desire for Tullus. The following spring and Germanicus’ proposed campaign couldn’t come soon enough.

  ‘The weather is fine for the time of year, is it not?’ asked Germanicus, looking up at the clear sky.

  ‘It is a deal milder than normal, sir, yes,’ replied Caecina.

  ‘I am unused to the change in seasons in these parts. Have you seen conditions like this before?’

  ‘On occasion, sir. There is no way of knowing if it will continue,’ Caecina added, as if he and Germanicus had already discussed something.

  ‘Yet it has been settled for – what? A month now?’ Germanicus addressed not just Caecina, but the gathering at large.

  ‘That would be right, sir,’ replied Caecina, with similar answers echoing from others present.

  Germanicus paced to and fro, which emphasised how much taller he was than everyone else. He tapped a fingernail against his teeth. ‘The mutiny and its aftermath must be put behind us, and a winter spent in barracks will not achieve that. If anything, it will do the opposite.’

  This was true, thought Tullus. With fewer duties during the cold months, the legionaries would have time to brood – and gossip. He pricked up his ears.

  ‘I propose a swift raid over the river,’ said Germanicus, his keen eyes roving from officer to officer. ‘Cross, march hard, find a nearby hostile tribe, and attack. There’s nothing like a common enemy to bring men together. The Marsi are one of the closest, are they not?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Caecina. ‘You would lead men from the mutinous legions, I assume?’

  ‘You are a mind reader, Caecina. Not every soldier of the four legions, but most. Ten, twelve thousand legionaries, plus a similar number of auxiliaries, should be sufficient.’

  Tullus’ spirits soared at Germanicus’ words. The Marsi had been an integral part of Arminius’ forces. They deserved to be punished – and this was not his only reason to feel excited. ‘Sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Speak, Tullus,’ ordered Germanicus, with an expansive gesture.

  ‘I have a servant who is Marsi, sir. He’s heard a rumour of recent days that one of the three lost eagles is with his tribe.’

  Germanicus’ eyes lit up. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He wasn’t sure which legion it had come from, though.’

  ‘No matter,’ cried Germanicus, glancing from face to face. ‘Let us hope the story is true, and that we recover the eagle even as we wipe out the Marsi.’

  Tullus’ conscience began to twinge. The penalty paid by Degmar’s people was always going to be severe but he hadn’t anticipated the entire tribe being sentenced to death. Part of him didn’t care, but he couldn’t help picturing Degmar’s parents and sisters, whom the warrior had sometimes mentioned, being butchered. Innocents died all the time, Tullus told himself. It’s not as if his family are friends to Rome.

  Tubero had read his mind. ‘Keep your dog of a servant on a tight leash. Better still, silence him,’ he said with a nasty smile. ‘The last thing we need is for the Marsi to be warned of our approach.’

  The gaze of every man present bore down on Tullus. He felt that of Germanicus the most. ‘There’s no need for concern, sir. My servant is faithful. If it hadn’t been for him, we would not have made it to Aliso.’

  ‘You will take responsibility for his actions?’ demanded Tubero.

  ‘I will, sir,’ replied Tullus. ‘I’ll have him watched.’

  It seemed as if Tubero might press Tullus further, but Germanicus raised a hand. ‘The centurion’s word is sufficient.’

  Tubero subsided, while Tullus raged inside. He had just placed his reputation, perhaps his life, on the line when he wasn’t sure if Degmar would remain true, in particular if the lives of his family were at stake. The best solution, Tullus concluded, was to do as he’d promised, and prevent Degmar acting until it was too late.

  ‘When do we leave, sir?’ he asked Germanicus.

  ‘The legions from Ara Ubiorum will be here in three to four days. The combined force can leave the day after that.’

  Once the assault on the Marsi was over, Tullus decided, Degmar could be released from his oath. What man would wish to serve another who had helped to massacre his people?

  Tullus summoned Degmar the moment he got back to his barracks. His rooms weren’t the ones he’d lived in while serving in the Eighteenth – a move had been inevitable after his demotion – but he had salvaged many of the fixtures and fittings, and his personal possessions. In the dark months after the ambush, he had been surprised how these old, familiar objects had made his life easier to bear. The effect had been most noticeable in his bedroom, a more private chamber than the rest of his quarters, which were so often filled with visitors of one kind or another.

  There were woollen rugs that he’d bought in the local market. A wooden stand he used to hold his armour, its arms worn shiny from the rubbing of mail. A waist-high stone shrine, decorated with a few tiny figures – among them those of his father and grandfather – standing in the opposite corner to his bed. The threadbare military blanket that he preferred more than any fine bedcover. A pair of simple stools that faced each other across a low table, upon which sat a jug, two cups and a set of ivory gaming pieces.

  Moving from this to the sparsely decorated room that doubled as both living room and office, Tullus paced about, trying to come up with the best way of breaking the news to Degmar. He was still struggling for an answer when there was a sharp rap at the door, and the Marsi warrior entered.

  Tullus smiled. Even Fenestela would have called out his name before presuming to come in, but not proud Degmar. He never called Tullus ‘sir’ either. While other Romans found this behaviour impertinent, Tullus didn’t. The relationship between German chieftains and their followers was more equal than the Roman equivalent. Degmar deferred to him out of respect, not because of his rank.

  ‘You wanted me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tullus searched Degmar’s face for signs that he was aware of their mission, and was relieved to see none.

  ‘Do you need your sandals cleaned, or your armour polished?’

  ‘No.’

  Degmar’s eyes cast around the room. ‘Where’s your sword? You said something about it needing an edge.’

  ‘It’s not that either. I have to talk to you, to tell you something.’ Degmar’s dark eyes came to rest on Tullus’ face. ‘That sounds serious.’

  ‘It is.’ Tullus tried again to think how the blow might be eased, and failed. ‘Germanicus has ordered an immediate expedition over the Rhenus. Twenty-five thousand men. Half of them are to come from the Fifth and Twenty-First, and the legions at Ara Ubiorum, and the rest will be auxiliaries. It’s an exercise, to give the men a common purpose after the mutiny.’

  If Degmar was surprised, he concealed it well. ‘Am I to accompany you?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not why you’re here. Curse it, there’s only one way to say this. Germanicus has ordered us to attack the Marsi settlements.’
br />   Alarm flared in Degmar’s eyes. ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Those that are nearest.’

  ‘And are the people to be enslaved, or to …?’ Degmar’s voice died away.

  Tullus shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  There was silence as Degmar stared at the floor, his jaw working. ‘I have to go,’ he said at length. ‘They must be warned.’

  ‘You know I can’t let you do that.’

  Degmar took a step towards him. ‘Why should my parents and my sisters die? They have done nothing to Rome!’

  ‘I know,’ said Tullus, torn between his desire for revenge and his sympathy for Degmar.

  ‘And the womenfolk and children, the old – what have they done?’ Degmar’s voice throbbed with anger.

  ‘The Marsi rose against Rome. The warriors took part in Arminius’ ambush.’

  ‘Of course they did!’ spat Degmar. ‘Why wouldn’t they? You and your kind were the invaders, the ones who didn’t belong east of the Rhenus – not us. Among the tribes, we live our lives as free men, not as the subjects of some fucking emperor. What does that word mean anyway? Subjugation. The Roman boot on our necks. Laws. Tax. Not much else, as far as I can see.’

  Tullus had long known of Degmar’s antipathy towards Romans and Rome, and chosen to ignore it. The warrior served him, not his senior officers or the emperor. Hearing his feelings laid out in such a plain manner was still shocking, but Tullus couldn’t help thinking that his response to such a threat might have been similar. ‘Rome is what it is,’ he began.

  ‘This for Rome!’ Degmar made an obscene gesture, and for a moment it seemed as if he might strike Tullus, or flee the room. Then his shoulders slumped. ‘Am I to be held captive until after the raid?’

  ‘Can you give me your word that you will not run?’

  ‘Why should I?’ demanded Degmar, rage still simmering in his eyes. ‘Everyone I love who remains living is soon to die, thanks to Germanicus.’ He spat the last word.

  Degmar’s anguish brought Tullus to an instant and unexpected decision. ‘I am bound to follow the governor’s orders – you know that. The Marsi settlements will be destroyed, and thousands of people will die. That’s not to say that a few individuals might not escape.’

  Degmar threw him a look loaded with suspicion. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Your loyalty these past years places a responsibility on me.’ Even though they were alone, Tullus lowered his voice. ‘I will help you smuggle your family to safety before the attack. Once it’s done, you can stay with them.’

  There was wonder in Degmar’s eyes now, and a trace of disbelief. ‘Why do this for me?’

  ‘I would never have reached Aliso after the ambush, nor would my men.’

  ‘Pah! I was your guide, nothing more.’

  ‘No,’ said Tullus. ‘I’ve told you before. You didn’t have to try and find us after the slaughter began, but you did. You then saved my life – all of our lives. That was more than enough to repay my freeing you from the Usipetes.’

  ‘Leading you along some forest paths for a few days is nothing. The only way I can erase that debt is by saving your life in combat,’ refuted Degmar with the same stubbornness that emerged each time the issue came up.

  ‘Look on my helping you with this as recompense for your services as a guide then,’ said Tullus with a smile. ‘As for your obligation to save me in battle, well, you will have to set that aside when we part company. I will not have it any other way.’

  ‘If you are caught, if someone like Tubero found out …’ Degmar began.

  ‘We had best ensure that no one realises what we’re up to, eh?’ Despite his tone, Tullus was far from confident. To locate Degmar’s family while the legions massed nearby, to keep them from telling their friends or neighbours, and then spirit them to safety without being spotted by either side, verged on the impossible, and the insane. He was still going to try, though.

  For Degmar.

  Chapter XV

  PISO WAS AT the bar of the Ox and Plough, which had become his second home since the recent bloodbath in which the mutineers had been killed. The place was jammed with legionaries and officers, and a smattering of civilians. All the tables were occupied, and the standing customers were pressed together like the unfortunates in the bowels of a slave ship. A trio of musicians in one corner made valiant but vain attempts to be heard over the drunken singing and shouted conversations. The innkeeper Sirona patrolled the length of the bar, smiling, serving wine and food, and keeping an eye on her patrons.

  ‘More wine,’ said Piso, banging his cup on the counter. ‘MORE WINE!’

  Vitellius gave him a sour look. He was being more abstemious than Piso, as usual. It was no surprise, therefore, when he grabbed Piso’s arm before it struck the wooden top again. ‘Haven’t you had enough?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Piso. ‘I fucking haven’t.’

  Vitellius glanced at Sirona, who was approaching with a sour face and a fresh jug. ‘Water it down, will you?’

  ‘I have,’ came the tart reply. ‘Five to one.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Vitellius, slapping down coins worth twice the wine’s normal price. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Five to one?’ slurred Piso. This was degrees more dilution than legionaries – than he – liked. Sirona’s expression had turned thunderous, however. Drunk or not, Piso realised that further objection would result in the wine being poured over his head. He swallowed his pride and said no more.

  Sirona placed the jug in front of Vitellius – not Piso – and swept the coins into her hand. ‘This is your last drink. You’re both pissed. You’ – here she gave Piso an unfriendly look – ‘in particular.’

  Stung, Piso began to protest, but a sharp jab of Vitellius’ elbow made him turn on his friend instead. ‘What was that for?’

  Vitellius ignored him. ‘As you say, Sirona – we’ll go after this. Won’t we, Piso?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose,’ Piso muttered darkly.

  Pursing her lips, Sirona stalked off.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ demanded Vitellius. ‘Do you want to end up barred?’

  ‘She wouldn’t dare,’ said Piso with a sneer.

  ‘Why ever not? She has more than enough customers, and her sons are fucking enormous. If she tells them you’re not welcome, you won’t get in again.’ Vitellius indicated the two strapping men by the door, both of whom had clubs. When Piso made a phhhh of contempt, he added, ‘She’s friendly with Tullus too, you fool. This is Artio’s home, remember? One word from Sirona to Tullus, and you’ll find yourself with punishment duty as well as being barred from here.’

  ‘All right,’ grumbled Piso. Wine slopped on to the bartop as he filled their cups with an unsteady hand. He toasted Vitellius and downed the lot in one gulp. The warm feeling as it hit his stomach was pleasant, but it couldn’t erase Piso’s graphic memories of how close he’d come to stabbing the fleeing centurion, still less how he had helped Tullus to kill some of the mutineers. The frank terror in their faces, the disbelief that their comrades could turn on them, was as fresh in his mind, and as jarringly painful, as if it had just happened. He hung his head, stared down at the sawdust-covered floor and wondered about vomiting.

  After a moment, his stomach settled. ‘I thought nothing could be worse than the fucking forest.’

  Vitellius looked more sympathetic. ‘I felt the same way, but those men had to die. Left alone, they would have been a weeping sore in the legion’s side – always painful, always causing trouble. I know that. You know that. Everyone knows it.’

  ‘But to make us the executioners?’

  ‘That was pure genius on Germanicus’ part, don’t you see? If he’d sent in auxiliaries, every legionary on the frontier would distrust allied troops for the rest of his life, and rightly so. Making us complicit means that we have to forget the whole sick affair. Moving on, leaving it in the past, is our only option.’

  Vitellius’ explanation made sense, thought Piso, but it
didn’t diminish his shame, which he often saw mirrored in Vitellius’ eyes, as well as those of their comrades. He refilled their cups again, emptying the jug. ‘How long will that take, eh? To forget it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Vitellius’ voice was weary. ‘But it will happen. Think of it as you would a broken heart. In the end, it heals. Time is all that’s needed.’

  Piso had never had a broken heart, but he didn’t want to admit that, so he grunted in agreement and finished the dregs of his wine. He planted his cup on the counter with a thump. ‘If we’re no longer going to get served, let’s find somewhere else. I don’t want to go back to barracks.’

  Vitellius sighed. ‘You can’t go on drowning your sorrows like this. It’s only a matter of time before Tullus or Fenestela catches you.’

  ‘I can’t sleep if I don’t drink.’ Piso heard his whining tone, and hated himself for it.

  ‘You’ll have to find another way then,’ replied Vitellius with a scowl. ‘I don’t want to go to Hades because you were too hung over to protect me.’

  The accusation stung. In battle, every legionary was supposed to defend the man to his left. Piso guarded Vitellius, just as another of their tent mates did for him, and so on. ‘That would never happen!’

  ‘A cripple with a crutch would have bested you for the last few mornings,’ replied Vitellius with a knowing look.

  Piso’s cheeks reddened. Vitellius was right. If they’d been forced to fight in recent days, he would have struggled to keep himself alive beyond the first clash with the enemy, never mind protect Vitellius. Pride smarting now, he cried, ‘Gods above, leave me alone!’

  ‘Why should I?’ Vitellius’ eyes were understanding but hard. ‘You’re my friend. My comrade. It’s my job to look after you, wherever we are. Which means you should climb on the wagon for a while.’

  Piso absorbed this with the ponderousness of the blind drunk. At length, he nodded. Being responsible for the death of a friend like Vitellius would be worse, far worse than his current troubles. And so the nightmares that plagued him every night would have to be faced in the company of someone other than Bacchus, who, if truth be told, had not done a good job of preventing them anyway. ‘Very well. I’ll do it.’