Hunting the Eagles

The legionary stared. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I said, piss off!’

  ‘Yes, sir. T-thank you, sir.’ The stunned legionary saluted. He took a few steps towards the gap between the tents.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Tubero demanded.

  The legionary glanced over his shoulder. Fresh horror filled his eyes and he spun, coming to immediate attention. ‘The centurion was telling me off, sir.’

  Curse my pride. I should have avoided this, thought Tullus. He turned to find Tubero ten paces away. In expensive armour, with blue eyes, blond curls and chiselled chin, he was the epitome of a Roman nobleman. The arrogant curl of his full lips that Tullus despised was there; so too was the malicious look that came into his eyes each time they met. Tullus wished yet again that Tubero had died in Arminius’ ambush, or that he had come across him during the savage battle. There was no doubt in his mind that Tubero had been terrified throughout the entire affair, pissing his underwear – and hiding, like as not, while his soldiers died all around him. If Tullus had possessed such information, Tubero would never have pressed for his demotion the way he had.

  Yet Tullus hadn’t found Tubero during the ambush, nor had he died. Somehow the shit had earned himself a reputation as one of the few heroes of the whole sorry affair, and now he was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. ‘It’s nothing, sir,’ said Tullus.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

  Tullus inhaled, long and slow, trying to stop the red mist from descending.

  ‘Well? What was this imbecile doing?’ Tubero stabbed a finger at the legionary, who squirmed as if he’d just been struck with a vitis.

  ‘He was just sweeping, sir,’ said Tullus. ‘Wasn’t looking where he was going, and walked into me. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’ Tubero’s eyebrows arched, and he glanced at his staff officers, who were swift to adopt shocked expressions. ‘A common soldier knocks over a centurion, and you say, “That’s all”?’

  ‘He didn’t knock me over, sir,’ said Tullus, willing Tubero to let the matter drop. Frustration clawed at him. There were far more important issues to deal with, such as the brewing mutiny, which he couldn’t even mention.

  ‘I saw what happened, centurion, and I say that he did,’ said Tubero with relish. ‘What punishment is the idiot to have?’

  Whatever I say, thought Tullus, will not be enough. If I lie, and the prick catches me out, I’m the one who will pay. He had had enough shit from Tubero over the years. ‘I didn’t punish him, sir. What he did was unintentional.’

  ‘Do you hear this?’ crowed Tubero. He fixed Tullus with a gimlet stare. ‘What kind of example is it to let off a legionary after he’s done something like this?’

  I think it teaches a soldier to respect an officer, thought Tullus, but instead he said through gritted teeth, ‘I didn’t think it mattered, sir.’

  ‘More and more I can see why it was a good idea to demote you, centurion. Unless you want to end your career in the ranks, I suggest you smarten up your act.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Tullus in a monotone, fixing his gaze on the middle distance over Tubero’s right shoulder.

  ‘He’s not under your command?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Tell his centurion I want him whipped. Twenty lashes minimum.’ With a tug of the reins, Tubero pulled his mount’s head around. ‘See that it’s done, centurion,’ he called, riding off. ‘I will find out if you disobey my order.’

  Fall off your horse and break your stiff neck, thought Tullus. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. Giving the legionary a sympathetic look, he said, ‘Who’s your centurion?’

  ‘Septimius, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Tullus’ frustration soared. With most centurions, it would have been easy to ask that the legionary’s whipping be administered with a light hand. Not so with the disciplinarian Septimius. And it was over something so trifling. Tullus could think of no better way to create ill will, not just in this soldier’s heart, but in those of his comrades, than to order the punishment carried out. He was bound to follow Tubero’s order, however, for good or bad. This is what causes mutinies, Tullus thought, fighting a rising sense of frustration and impotence.

  His chances of warning his superiors had now vanished. He would have to see what transpired in the coming hours and days, and pray that Bony Face and his kind failed in their attempt to win over the soldiers of the four legions. Tullus’ cynicism bubbled up now, fierce and strong. What use was prayer? It hadn’t got him far five years before, in the cauldron of blood that had been the Saltus Teutoburgiensis.

  A tiny part of Tullus began to fight back. He had survived the ambush, and so had fifteen of his men, a child and a dog. Maybe Fortuna had been listening to him during those savage days of slaughter and mud. It wouldn’t hurt to ask for her help again, he decided, muttering a heartfelt request to the goddess.

  With the legionary delivered to Septimius, Tullus was free to lead his men out on patrol. The open road and monotony of the march made a welcome break from the claustrophobic atmosphere in the camp. Warm sunshine bathed the countryside, lending it a comforting orange glow. The bushes lining the road were heavy with blackberries, and in the fields beyond, the barley and wheat grown by local farmers was ready to harvest.

  Tullus’ apprehension eased as time passed. His men marched twenty-five miles in roughly six hours; like as not, they resented him for it, yet they were in good enough spirits to sing. Despite their fitness, which came from his continuous training, they were tired. Mutiny would be the last thing on their minds. Once they had unburdened themselves of their kit, had a wash and something to eat, they would be happy to sit by their fires before falling into their blankets.

  Although Tullus had ridden – he didn’t march much these days – he too was weary. His lower back ached, and there was a knot between his shoulder blades that needed the attention of someone practised at massage. His posture was still upright, however, and he continued to make regular checks on the marching column.

  ‘You’ve done well, men,’ he called out several times on his way back to the front of the patrol. ‘You’ll all have a cup of wine this evening.’

  They cheered him then, even the legionaries he had caught out at dawn. They’ll do, he decided with a sneaking pride. They won’t mutiny.

  Tullus was able to savour the feeling for perhaps half a mile, until the enormous training ground outside the camp drew near. Rather than being empty – a normal thing at this time of day – it was full. Thousands of legionaries stretched as far as the eye could see. His fears resurged with frightening speed. This was no parade. He could see no unit or cohort standards, let alone eagles. There were no neat divisions between cohorts, or indeed legions. What he saw was a mob, and an angry one at that, he thought, as the first shouts reached his ears.

  ‘Halt!’ Tullus barked. ‘Optio, get up here! You too, Degmar.’

  Fenestela let out a low whistle as he took the scene in. ‘Vulcan’s sweaty arse crack. They’ve done it. The mad bastards have risen up.’

  Hearing it spoken out loud made it far worse. Tullus chewed on his cheek, and wondered what to do.

  Degmar, a short, wiry warrior with black hair, looked mystified – and somewhat amused. He’d been Tullus’ servant cum bodyguard since just before Arminius’ ambush, and was like his shadow – ever present. ‘What are your orders?’

  There were two options, thought Tullus. The first, and easiest, was to march his men straight past the gathering, to their tents. He could then send Fenestela, or one of the other officers, to find out what was happening, while he assessed the state of affairs in the camp. His second choice was to lead his soldiers towards the mob, and see for himself. To do so would give him an immediate understanding of how serious the situation was, while running the genuine risk of losing control of his troops if this was a mutiny.

  He studied his men, who seemed keen to know what was going on. Yet their ranks were steady, and Tullus’ heart squeezed. Despite his best
efforts, they had become dear to him. For the most part, they were good soldiers, and disciplined. He was almost certain – almost – that they would follow his orders here if things turned to shit. He didn’t want to test them, though. The dressing-down he’d had to give the eight soldiers outside their tent was too recent, and the nearby gathering too large and unruly.

  ‘We’ll return to the camp,’ he said.

  Fenestela’s eyes narrowed. ‘Because of this morning?’

  ‘In the main, yes.’

  ‘A wise choice.’

  Fenestela’s opinion quashed any doubt that Tullus had had about choosing the more conservative path. He wondered about sending Degmar away for his own safety – when law broke down, men were prone to turn on those who weren’t of their kind – but decided that that wasn’t yet necessary. ‘Ready yourselves, brothers!’ he cried. ‘Back to camp.’

  A ripple passed through the ranks. Tullus wasn’t sure if it was excitement, fear or anger at his command, and his guts twisted. Would they disobey him?

  ‘Good news, sir. I’m fucking starving,’ Piso called out.

  There was a burst of laughter. ‘Me too, sir!’ cried Vitellius. ‘I’ve got a skin of wine needs finishing as well.’ In the blink of an eye, the soldiers’ mood became jovial once more. A chorus of requests to return to their tents rang out. Tullus waited until it had died down before repeating that they would each have not one, but two cups of wine apiece.

  His men cheered.

  Tullus led them off at once, hoping that the thought of free wine would remain uppermost in their minds, rather than a desire to know what was going on.

  ‘How many years has our pay been the same?’ shouted a voice from the midst of the gathering.

  ‘Twenty!’ answered a voice. ‘More than that!’ roared another. ‘Twenty-five, at the least!’ said a third.

  ‘There you are!’ cried the first voice. ‘How little the empire thinks of us to treat us so. We guard its frontier and keep the barbarians at bay. We suffer grievous wounds and lay down our lives in its name, and our reward is to be paid a pittance, and to serve until we die of old age. Why should we accept such injustice?’

  The soldiers’ reply, a swelling roar of anger, rose high into the sky.

  Relief filled Tullus as his men – who were also listening to the exchanges – kept marching. He glanced at the mob. Fists were being waved, and so were swords. Already volatile, the situation was turning dangerous. He had to consult with Caecina, he thought.

  Something had to be done, or blood would be shed.

  Chapter VI

  TULLUS LED HIS men straight to the camp’s main entrance – worryingly, it was unmanned – and from there towards the principia, the headquarters.

  The situation had deteriorated faster than he’d thought possible. Not all the soldiers were at the gathering. Gangs thirty to fifty men strong were roaming the avenues, singing and tearing down officers’ tents. Some had been set on fire. Most of the legionaries appeared to be drunk, which suggested to Tullus that the quartermaster’s stores had already been raided. His troops, disciplined and in formation, attracted nothing more than a barrage of abuse and an occasional stone. Others weren’t so lucky, such as the optio who was set upon by a group of mutineers walking by his tent. A quick charge by Tullus and his men saw the rebellious legionaries flee, allowing the bruised and battered officer to pick himself up off the ground.

  ‘What in Hades is going on?’ demanded Tullus as the optio gabbled his thanks.

  ‘It started not long after the morning meal, sir. Some say it began in the Twenty-First, others in the Fifth. The officers started getting it first. Insults, catcalls, you can imagine.’ The optio wiped a string of bloody snot from his broken nose. ‘Things got out of hand when some fool of a centurion – begging your pardon, sir – drew his sword. They turned on him like a pack of starving wolves, cut him limb from limb.’

  Tullus absorbed this news with a rising sense of horror, and anger. It had been a mistake to go on the patrol – he should have ignored Septimius’ orders and gone straight to Caecina. Yet he was unsure if it would have made any difference – Varus hadn’t listened to him. Nor had Septimius. Would Caecina have been any different? It was too late to find out now in any case. It was also time for Degmar to go. ‘Degmar,’ he called.

  The warrior appeared at his side like a ghost. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘You’re to leave the camp.’

  Degmar looked unhappy. ‘I am here to protect you.’

  ‘It will be safer if you don’t stay, at least until things calm down.’

  ‘If you order me to, I will obey,’ said Degmar, scowling.

  ‘I am ordering you to.’ Tullus had no time to explain. He hoped that Degmar understood. ‘Come back in a few days.’

  ‘And if you’re dead?’

  Tullus ignored Fenestela’s angry hiss, and the optio’s startled reaction. His relationship with Degmar was a curious, deep-feeling one – in ways it was like that of two comrades, and in others like that of benevolent father and rebellious son. It was without question not that of master and servant. After Arminius’ ambush, Tullus had used to wonder if Degmar’s pregnant wife would lure him home. A chance meeting with Marsi who were trading on the Roman side of the river not long after their return had ended his concern. Degmar’s wife had died with her baby during a prolonged labour. Tullus had offered to let Degmar go home to see their graves, but he had refused, saying, ‘She’s gone. I stay with you.’

  Now, Tullus shrugged. ‘If I’m dead, then you’ll be free to go back to your people.’

  Degmar’s dark eyes regarded him, unblinking. ‘I will try my luck at hunting.’ He bent his head a fraction – for him a sign of respect – and loped off towards the camp’s entrance.

  Knowing that Degmar would be outside the fortifications and beyond harm lifted some of the weight from Tullus’ shoulders. He eyed the optio. ‘I’m heading for the principia. How do things stand there?’

  ‘Caecina is barricaded inside, sir. By all accounts, the legates, the camp prefect and the tribunes have been placed under arrest in their tents.’

  Tullus pinched the bridge of his nose. Should he attempt to rescue a few of the Fifth’s senior officers first, or was it best to make straight for Caecina, and offer him his strength? Stick to the original plan, he decided. Caecina is the regional commander: he will know what to do.

  The principia was being defended by the governor’s guards and a mixture of legionaries from different centuries, some three hundred soldiers in total, when Tullus arrived. Some were digging a ditch and rampart, while the rest stood guard. The sentries’ tense expressions and drawn weapons spoke volumes about the prevailing mood in the headquarters.

  Caecina, the province’s governor, was in the large command tent that served in place of the great hall that existed in every permanent camp. Perhaps ten score centurions were there too; a number bore the marks of beatings. Among them, Tullus saw most of his fellows from the Fifth, and Cordus and Victor, but not Septimius. He hoped that Septimius and the other missing centurions, about forty men, weren’t dead. Not all were good officers, but that didn’t warrant their being murdered out of hand.

  ‘You’re Tullus? The survivor of the Saltus Teutoburgiensis?’ Caecina was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a heavy brow and beaked nose, yet his voice was surprisingly high. ‘I’ve heard of you.’

  Tullus wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing. He came to attention, and saluted. ‘I am he, sir. I’m now a centurion of the Seventh Cohort, Fifth Legion.’

  ‘I’m told’ – and here Caecina glanced at the centurion who had accompanied Tullus from the entrance – ‘that your entire century is with you. That they have not rebelled.’

  At once Tullus felt the weight of two hundred men’s eyes upon him. ‘That’s correct, sir. They’re a steady lot.’

  ‘And you must be a fine leader. Your actions are to be applauded, centurion,’ said Caecina in a warm voice. ‘Few oth
ers have brought any legionaries with them.’ He threw the gathered centurions a hard look. ‘No one has come in with his whole command.’

  ‘My soldiers are at your disposal, sir,’ said Tullus, bowing his head and thinking with genuine pride: my boys aren’t so bad after all.

  ‘Several options remain open to us,’ said Caecina to the room at large. ‘We can stay here and wait for Germanicus to come, as surely he must when the news reaches him. I can attempt to deal with the mutineers, and listen to their demands. Rescue attempts could be made for the legates and tribunes. We could even attack the rebels, although I suspect that would not be wise.’

  No one offered an immediate opinion, which didn’t surprise Tullus. Caecina’s position as governor was intimidating even to centurions, and the shock of their men’s rebellion would still be fresh.

  ‘Is there no one who will speak his mind?’ asked Caecina with a frown.

  ‘It would be best to remain here, sir,’ said Cordus. ‘There are too many of the whoresons for us to do anything else.’

  A score of voices rumbled in agreement, and more heads nodded.

  Caecina looked troubled. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he began.

  ‘CAECINA!’ The shout came from outside the principia.

  Caecina gave an involuntary start and, like everyone else present, he stared towards the front of the enclosure.

  ‘SHOW YOURSELF, CAECINA!’

  ‘CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA!’ roared a hundred, two hundred, innumerable voices.

  ‘Don’t go out there, sir,’ cried a centurion. ‘They’ll kill you.’

  Caecina’s shoulders went back. ‘What kind of man would I be not to respond?’ He called out several names. ‘Come with me. You too, Tullus.’

  Stunned to have been chosen – the others were some of the most senior centurions of the four legions – Tullus did as he was told.

  ‘CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA!’ Outside the command tent, the noise made by the mob beyond the entrance was deafening. Terrifying.

  Tullus saw Fenestela’s questioning glance, and shrugged. Maybe his doom was to die here, at the hands of fellow Romans. He hoped not. It wasn’t so much his death that concerned him, but that he’d lose any chance of avenging himself on Arminius and recovering his legion’s eagle.