Hunting the Eagles

  ‘AUGUSTUS IS DEAD,’ bellowed the centurion. ‘THE EMPEROR, GODS REST HIS SOUL, HAS DIED.’

  All conversation stopped. More than one cup of wine was dropped to the floor. The musician playing a double flute came to a stuttering, discordant halt.

  ‘How can you know this?’ called Tullus. His protest was echoed by a dozen voices.

  ‘The news has just come in from Rome, they say,’ replied the centurion. ‘Messengers have ridden from the capital night and day since it happened, sent to every part of the empire.’

  Pandemonium broke out, replicating the disturbances already happening outside the tent. Officers collapsed into their seats and placed their heads in their hands. Some wept openly. Others had begun to pray. More still were downing cups of wine, offering up extravagant toasts to the dead emperor.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Tullus, feeling as weary as if he’d just finished a twenty-mile march. Augustus had banned him from ever entering Italy, but he had been a good ruler overall. ‘He was in power for forty-five years. Part of me thought he’d go on forever.’

  ‘Most of us had the same idea,’ said Fenestela.

  Tullus glanced out of the tent. A group of legionaries stood just outside. No one had noticed, but the distress evident everywhere else was absent among them. Instead, the group had huddled together, with their heads almost touching.

  Tendrils of unease snaked up Tullus’ back. Years as a centurion had given him an uncanny ability to sniff out trouble. ‘They’re up to something,’ he whispered to Fenestela.

  It was worrying that instead of telling him that he was imagining it, Fenestela replied, ‘I think so too.’

  Tullus’ enjoyment of what had been a pleasant evening vanished, like frost under a rising sun. There was trouble coming: he could feel it in his bones.

  For the emperor was dead.

  Chapter II

  ON THE EVENING of the second day following the terrible news of Augustus’ death, legionary Marcus Piso was taking a rest in the tent he shared with seven other men. He was tired – his centurion Tullus had seen to that with his endless marching – but he wasn’t quite ready for sleep. That was what would take him, however, if he didn’t soon stir from his bed. The warmth of his woollen blanket beneath him, the flickering of the oil lamps on the floor, and the quiet muttering of his comrades combined in a familiar, eyelid-closing mixture.

  The snores reaching Piso’s ears told him that at least one of the other soldiers was asleep. A quick glance confirmed that this was correct. The two nearest him were lying head to head, talking in quiet tones and sharing a skin of wine. He sat up a fraction, so that he could peer at the men in the far end of the tent. Vitellius, his closest friend, had his eyes closed. Two of the others were hunched over a latrunculi gaming board lying between them. The last soldier, another friend of Piso’s, wasn’t in his bed. He could be anywhere, thought Piso – the latrines, in another tent, or on the scrounge for wine or food. His best chance of recruiting other gamblers lay with Vitellius.

  ‘Anyone for a game of dice?’ asked Piso, ever the optimist.

  There was no answer.

  ‘Who wants to play dice?’ he said, louder.

  The snoring of the man opposite stopped. He grunted a couple of times and rolled over, presenting his back to Piso.

  With a sigh, he eyed the drinking pair. ‘Interested?’

  ‘You know me. I’ve got no money,’ answered one.

  ‘Not a chance. You always win, maggot,’ said the other.

  Piso studied the two playing latrunculi. ‘Either of you fancy it?’

  ‘This game’s just starting to get interesting,’ came the reply. ‘Maybe later.’

  His frustration building, Piso stared at Vitellius. ‘Pssst! ’Tellius!’

  ‘Mmmmm …’

  ‘’Tellius, wake up!’

  Vitellius’ thin face twisted, and he rubbed a hand over his eyes. He gave Piso an irritable look. ‘This better be good. I was in the middle of getting down to it with that redheaded whore in Bacchus’ Grove.’

  ‘You can’t afford her,’ said Piso with a snort. Bacchus’ Grove was one of the better brothels in the tent village outside the camp, and the redhead was the one of the finest-looking whores in the place. Everyone in the legion wanted to lie with her, but few had the coin.

  ‘I can in a dream, you fool,’ retorted Vitellius. ‘But you’ve woken me now. What do you want?’

  ‘A game of dice.’ Piso made a dismissive gesture. ‘Not with this lot. With one of the other contubernia, or in another century’s tent lines.’

  ‘I remember a certain night when you started playing dice,’ said Vitellius with a nasty chuckle. ‘It didn’t end well.’

  ‘That was years ago,’ Piso shot back, remembering how he’d stripped another soldier of his money, fair and square, not long before Arminius’ ambush. The loser had been so angry that he and a gang of his friends had jumped Piso, Vitellius and another comrade soon after. If Tullus hadn’t come along, they might all have been beaten to death, instead of black and blue. ‘It’s never happened since, has it, you dog?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘You’ll come then?’ asserted Piso. ‘Imagine, you might do so well that you can afford the redhead. If your winnings aren’t quite enough, I’ll chip in with the difference – anything for a friend.’ He winked.

  ‘All right, all right.’ With a grunt, Vitellius sat up.

  Piso eased his tall frame upright, stooping under the low roof and avoiding the latrunculi players on his way out. Holding his breath, he delved into the ripe-smelling heap of sandals by the tent’s entrance and found his pair. Once they were laced up, he checked his purse. His bone dice, made from the tailbones of a sheep and weighted just so, were in there, along with a handful of asses and smaller coins, and a few sestertii. Tiberius’ fleshy profile gazed up at him from a solitary silver denarius. That’s plenty, thought Piso, knowing it would have to be. The dice didn’t always give him sixes – throwing them was an inexact art – and the next payday wouldn’t come around for two months. ‘Ready?’

  ‘I have been since you woke me up,’ replied Vitellius dourly, joining him outside. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Along our tent lines first.’

  ‘Why not head straight to the Second Century’s tents?’ Vitellius lowered his voice. ‘There was talk of a meeting there.’

  Piso gave Vitellius a warning look, and got back a shrug. Both knew as well as the next man that Augustus’ sudden death had brought the long-term simmering unrest about pay and conditions bubbling up to the surface. An illegal gathering wouldn’t be the best place to seek out fellow gamblers, but previous experience – Piso had stung men in every contubernium of their century for money – meant that there was little point looking close to home, and he wanted company. ‘We’re not hanging around if they’re talking about what I suspect they’ll be talking about. I don’t want the Second’s centurion knocking my head off a wall, let alone Tullus when he hears what we were up to.’

  ‘We’ll be careful,’ muttered Vitellius, jingling his own purse.

  Piso decided to try the men of their own unit anyway, but a barrage of abuse met him from every tent as he poked his head in and asked if anyone was feeling lucky. Ignoring Vitellius’ ‘I told you so’ comments, he led the way to the Second Century’s tents, which lay a short distance from their own. There was plenty of light in the sky, and autumn’s chill hadn’t yet arrived to stay, so dozens of legionaries were still outside – gossiping, drinking, and repairing equipment. The scene was no different to any other night of the year, but Piso detected a certain tension in the air.

  Faces were sour, and men were talking in hushed tones. Suspicious looks were hurled if his eyes lingered on anyone. Perhaps it wasn’t the best night to gamble, he thought, before telling himself that things would be fine. They almost always were – Piso had a gift for making men laugh, helping them to feel at ease. It made beating them at dice easier. And safer. Nonet
heless, a cautious approach was warranted – and he’d refrain from drinking wine.

  Piso avoided the tents nearest those of the Second Century’s officers. They were doing nothing wrong, but it was good policy to avoid the scrutiny of those in charge. Some centurions and optiones made it their business to find fault wherever possible.

  Two soldiers were loitering close to the first pair of tents, which appeared to be packed. Piso didn’t think anything of it at first, but as they drew nearer, the men’s demeanour changed, the way doormen at an inn assess the troublemaking potential of new customers. He recognised them as brothers – they were like two peas in a pod. Raven-haired, sleek-skinned and with an athletic build, they were popular throughout the cohort.

  There was nothing welcoming about their manner tonight.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded one.

  Piso glanced at Vitellius, who raised his hands, palm outward. ‘There’s a meeting on, or so we heard. Wondered if we could listen in.’

  ‘I thought there might be some dice to be played too,’ offered Piso.

  The twin who’d asked the question looked a little less aggressive. ‘Whose century are you in?’

  ‘Tullus is our boss,’ replied Piso, adding for good measure, ‘and a bloody hard taskmaster he is too.’

  ‘Like ’em all. Bastards,’ snarled the first twin.

  ‘Cocksuckers,’ added his brother. ‘In you go, if you can find space. Keep your lips stitched about what you hear, mind.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ Muttering their thanks, Piso and Vitellius ducked down into the tent.

  The press within was so great that they had to wriggle and use their shoulders just to get inside. Piso estimated that there were more than a dozen men present, in a tent made for eight. A tiny space had been left in the middle of the tent for some oil lamps, which lent an orange glow to the interior. As Piso sat down, cheek by jowl with Vitellius, he spied three soldiers from their century. He returned their greeting nods.

  Someone was talking – a bony-faced, sunken-cheeked legionary whom Piso recognised – and pausing at regular intervals so that his words could be disseminated to those outside. Piso pricked up his ears, already worrying about what he’d hear.

  ‘It can’t be a coincidence, I say,’ declared Bony Face. ‘These things don’t happen together unless there’s a good reason. The last time I heard of standards turning to face the wrong way, against the wind, was before Drusus died, the gods rest his soul. That was a bad time, wasn’t it?’

  Rumbles of agreement and muttered prayers met his comment.

  ‘Men in the First Cohort were on patrol yesterday, and got hammered by a shower of hailstones that were blood-red in colour,’ said Bony Face. ‘These are frightening times.’

  ‘So it is. I heard some lads from the Rapax went swimming in the Rhenus and saw shadowy figures among the trees on the far bank,’ said a soldier near the door. ‘They wasn’t tribesmen either.’

  Piso didn’t know if he believed such tall tales, but with so many others rubbing at their phallic amulets and asking for the gods’ favour, it was hard not to feel rattled. Even Vitellius, the calmest of sorts, was frowning.

  ‘I’m telling you, it’s time to do something,’ said Bony Face. ‘Augustus was never going to give us what we deserve – what is owed to us. He was too busy penning his own biography and thinking about turning into a god.’ The laughter that followed was a mixture of amused and nervous, but no one told Bony Face to stop. ‘Tiberius needs to know that we soldiers can’t be taken for granted. We have to be treated right, eh? We’re entitled to proper pay, officers who aren’t corrupt slave drivers, and discharge when our service is up. Is that too much to ask for? Is it?’

  ‘No!’ the legionaries muttered back at him.

  Grinning, Bony Face gestured with his hands. ‘Easy now, brothers. Keep it down. We don’t want the centurion or any of those other bastard officers coming to investigate.’

  ‘What can we do?’ demanded a soldier with lank grey hair. ‘I’ve been reminding my centurion for five years that my time is up. Because the records have been lost, I can’t prove it, so he laughs in my face.’

  ‘I was conscripted after the Saltus Teutoburgiensis,’ said another. ‘I shouldn’t have to serve a day over the time I was signed up to, but, oddly, my documents can’t be found either. If my centurion has his way, I’ll be in uniform until I’m fifty.’

  A wave of outrage and similar accusations rendered it impossible to be heard for some time. Bony Face watched and listened with evident satisfaction, and waited until it had died down. ‘I will tell you what we’ll do,’ he said, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper.

  Piso studied the faces around him – they were alive with anticipation. Bony Face was a natural orator, which made him a dangerous man.

  ‘If we’re to succeed, we will need not just every soldier in the Fifth, but those of the other legions too. Me and my comrades, we’ve been testing the water, so to speak, and the time is ripe. It’s hard to find a happy man in the whole cursed camp! Each of you will know someone in another legion. Go and talk to them – as you have been already. Tell them that we all stand together on this.’

  Heads nodded; men smiled. They liked the sound of this. Piso felt sick.

  ‘Supposing the other legions do join us. What then?’ asked the lank-haired legionary. ‘The officers will only give us one answer, and it won’t be pleasant.’ Fear blossomed in many eyes, but before it could spread like the disease it was, Bony Face had begun to speak.

  ‘This for the officers!’ he hissed, miming a punch, and another. ‘And this!’ Now he rose, hunch-backed, and stamped on the ground with his hobnailed sandal. ‘If they still won’t listen, we’ll give them this.’ To Piso’s complete surprise, Bony Face simulated the stabbing action of a gladius, driving his arm back and forth a number of times. A low, animal roar met his actions, and Bony Face smiled.

  It wasn’t a pleasant expression.

  ‘Choose who you talk to with care,’ he warned. ‘If the officers get wind of it, you’ll be whipped within a cunt hair of your life – and that’s if you’re lucky. It’s important to spread the word fast, though. Something like this can’t remain secret for long. Someone will blab, and our chance will be gone.’ His eyes roved from face to face. ‘Are you with me?’

  ‘Aye,’ answered every voice. Piso joined in as well, to avoid arousing suspicion. He noted Vitellius doing the same.

  ‘On your way then,’ ordered Bony Face. ‘There’s no time like the present. Meet me back here, tomorrow night at the same hour. Gods willing, we’ll soon have four legions to call on.’

  Piso’s appetite for playing dice was gone, and Vitellius made no objection when he suggested returning to their tent. They filed out with the rest, taking care to avoid Bony Face’s gaze, and those of the twins, who were still lingering by the door. The moment Piso judged it safe to speak without being overheard, he muttered, ‘Do you think they’re serious?’

  ‘They sounded it to me.’

  ‘I know our pay isn’t as good as it should be – that’s the way of things – but mutiny? It’s fucking crazy.’

  ‘Centurions like Tullus are rare creatures,’ said Vitellius. ‘He’s one in ten thousand, Piso. Many are decent enough types, but there are plenty of rotten apples in the barrel. You know the types, like Septimius, the cohort commander, and the prick they call “Bring me another”.’

  The centurion with a habit of breaking vine sticks over his men’s backs and calling for replacements was renowned throughout the camp. Piso gave thanks that the man wasn’t his centurion. ‘Lucilius, isn’t that his name?’

  ‘Aye. It’s no surprise that men want to hammer seven shades of Hades out of whoresons like him, or to do even worse.’

  ‘It’s one thing to talk like that, though, and another to do it,’ said Piso.

  Vitellius slapped him on the back. ‘You’re a good man, Piso. Too good in some ways. If I had a centurion like “Bring me anothe
r”, I’d slip a blade between his ribs given half a chance.’

  Realising that Vitellius wasn’t joking was almost as shocking as hearing Bony Face’s proposal of all-out mutiny. ‘D’you want to be part of this?’ Piso whispered.

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ replied Vitellius. ‘But if Tullus weren’t my centurion, I probably would, yes. You aren’t happy with the idea, I take it?’

  ‘No chance! Tullus saved us in the forest. If it hadn’t been for him—’

  ‘Easy,’ said Vitellius. ‘I was there too, remember?’

  ‘Aye.’ Piso blinked away images of his friends and comrades – so many of them – dying.

  ‘I would never raise a hand to Tullus. Never. Doesn’t mean that a lot of officers don’t need a good seeing-to.’

  ‘But to murder them?’

  ‘It can’t end well, I know.’ Vitellius sucked in his lip, thinking, before adding, ‘Either way, Tullus needs to know.’

  The tension pinching Piso’s shoulders eased. He’d wanted to go to Tullus at once, but their last few moments of conversation had begun to make him doubt whether he could trust Vitellius. He could, which was an enormous relief, and not just because they were old friends.

  What faced them next – revealing Bony Face’s plan to Tullus – was even more terrifying.

  Chapter III

  AFTER SPENDING A day and a night in the oak-bound sacred grove close to his settlement, Arminius was walking back to his longhouse. Dawn had broken a short while before. It was cool and crisp and a little damp, one of those mornings when the smell in a man’s nostrils tells him that autumn is just around the corner. In the blue sky arcing over the woods, a handful of swifts still soared and dived, their melancholic cries a harbinger of their imminent departure.

  Arminius was bone-weary from lack of sleep. The copious quantity of barley beer he’d drunk during the night had given him a thumping headache. Worse still, the thunder god Donar had given no sign of approval throughout his vigil – no sign of anything, if truth be told. Arminius tried to shrug off his disappointment. Why should a divine signal be given to him? Such a thing couldn’t be manufactured, and it wasn’t as if he was a devout follower of the deities. Compared to those – and there were many – who believed every thunderclap and winter storm to be sent by the gods, he was somewhat of a sceptic.