‘The hours seem to double in length when you’re pacing up and down a fucking rampart, with only the corpses of centurions in the ditch to look at. Come on over,’ said Barrel. He shoved out a meaty hand. ‘Gaius.’
‘Piso. My friend’s called Vitellius.’ The situation in the camp was really bad, Piso thought, if there were dead centurions in the defensive ditch beyond the rampart. He wondered how many had been murdered.
Gaius gave them both an amiable grin. ‘No sign of Germanicus, was there?’
Fresh alarm bathed Piso. He had to pretend that they had been on watch all night. ‘No, not a thing.’
‘I didn’t think so. The way I’ve heard it, whoever is on sentry duty has to alert the whole cursed camp when that happens. The leaders want everyone there to greet him.’
‘That’d be right,’ agreed Piso, his palms prickling, hoping not to get caught out.
‘I’d love to see Germanicus’ face when he realises how many of us there are,’ said Gaius, filling a cracked red Samian bowl and handing it to Vitellius. ‘Four entire legions, bar the few miserable cocksuckers who remained “loyal”.’
‘The prick will shit his perfumed undergarment,’ said Vitellius, with a grateful nod for the porridge.
Chuckling, Gaius passed a bowl to Piso, whose heart was still pounding at the mention of ‘loyal’ men. ‘Got your own spoon?’
‘Aye.’ Piso fumbled in his purse, grateful that he hadn’t removed his spoon before leaving the principia. He blew on the steaming oats, and took a mouthful. ‘It’s good.’
‘There’s no need to lie,’ said Gaius with a snort. ‘The shit tastes the same as always. Plain but filling.’
‘It’s more than we had a moment ago, and we’re grateful,’ said Piso.
Gaius looked pleased. ‘You going for a kip after this?’
‘Might as well, eh?’ replied Vitellius. ‘It’s not as if any cursed centurion or optio will stop us.’
‘It’s like being in Elysium not to have fucking trumpets wake me before sparrow’s fart every morning,’ said Gaius, chuckling. His face grew serious. ‘What did you do to your centurion?’
‘Gave him a good hiding,’ lied Piso. ‘I’d say we cracked most of his ribs before we’d finished.’ Gaius stared at him, and Piso felt his pulse flutter. ‘And yours?’ he asked.
‘He’s dead. Happened on the first day.’
Gods above, thought Piso. He was glad when Vitellius stepped in. ‘A bad ’un, was he?’
‘One of the worst. The type who’d beat a man because one of his belt buckles wasn’t shiny, you know. The funny thing is, the fool could have got away. We hadn’t decided to kill him when it all started. I don’t think he really believed us when we told him that we were taking control of the camp and that he should clear off. He laughed in our faces. That riled us, but when he reached for his vine stick, well …’ Gaius’ eyes went out of focus for a moment, then he spat into the fire, making it hiss. ‘When we were done, he had more holes in him than a wine strainer. Good fucking riddance to him, that’s what I say.’
‘He’s no loss,’ said Piso, surprised to mean what he said. Life under such a centurion would be miserable beyond belief. Tullus wasn’t just a good leader, he decided – the man was fair too.
‘There were a few centurions like that in our legion,’ growled Vitellius. ‘They got short shrift.’
‘They say that at least twenty centurions have been killed, and one tribune. You heard that?’ asked Gaius.
‘Aye,’ Piso answered, adding for authenticity, ‘The figure varies a little, depending on who you’re talking to.’
‘And on how much wine the fucker has had,’ interjected Vitellius with a wink. ‘Some would have it that there isn’t an officer left alive for twenty miles, apart from those who made it into the principia.’
They all laughed.
‘Did you hear about the centurion from the Rapax?’ asked Gaius.
‘There have been so many stories,’ said Piso. ‘Which one are you talking about?’
‘The sewer rat who used to put lead in his men’s kit before a march so that their yokes weighed half as much again as normal.’
‘Men talk about him,’ said Vitellius with a realistic scowl. ‘A nasty piece of work.’
‘Not any more,’ revealed Gaius in triumph. ‘He went for a swim in the Rhenus on the first day – after his soldiers had tied a lead weight to each of his feet. It turned out that the bastard was a strong swimmer – he managed to stay afloat for an age. In the end, his men used him as target practice for their javelins.’
‘That’s a bad way to die,’ said Piso without thinking.
‘Sounds as if he deserved it, though,’ Vitellius put in.
‘He did. Him and the others.’
Piso was quick to mutter his agreement, but he wondered if he’d seen a flicker of distrust in Gaius’ eyes. He swallowed a last spoonful of porridge, and said in a regretful tone, ‘I don’t know about you, ’Tellius, but I need my bed. Gratitude once again, Gaius.’
Accepting their bowls with a nod, Gaius looked Piso up and down. ‘What legion are you in?’
‘The Twentieth,’ lied Piso, not knowing which legion was best to say.
‘Which cohort?’
The casual question fell with the speed and lethality of an incoming sling bullet. Gaius knew men in one cohort or another, Piso decided, perhaps several. He was trying to catch them out. If Piso named a cohort in which Gaius had friends, he and Vitellius would be denounced before the scrapings of porridge in their bowls had gone cold. ‘The Tenth,’ he answered, his tongue rasping off the dry roof of his mouth.
Gaius’ calculating expression eased into one of dissatisfaction. ‘I’ve got mates in the third and fourth.’
‘I might know them to see, but not to talk to,’ said Piso. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Aye,’ said Gaius sourly. He cast a look at his tent. ‘Marcus! Didn’t you say once that you knew some men in the Tenth Cohort of the Twentieth?’
‘One or two,’ came the reply.
Piso wanted to rage at the heavens. Why me? Why now? He cast a quick look at Vitellius. What should we do? he mouthed. If they ran, Gaius and his comrades would be on them like a pack of hounds on a lame hare. By staying, they ran the risk of being exposed as frauds, which would result in the same thing. They were caught between Hannibal and his army, and the deep blue sea, as Piso’s grandfather had been fond of saying. Screwed, in other words, he thought with supreme bitterness.
‘Get out here,’ called Gaius.
‘I’m having a nap,’ came the irritated reply.
‘It won’t take a moment,’ said Gaius, smiling at Piso, who was reminded of the jagged-edged teeth he’d seen once in the mouth of a shark, hauled up in a fisherman’s net.
‘All right, all right,’ grumbled Marcus.
‘You’re bound to know Marcus’ friends,’ said Gaius, putting down the bowls.
Piso nodded in what he hoped was an enthusiastic manner. I’m not fool enough to stand here and die, he decided. Vitellius’ stiff-legged posture, like a male dog facing up to another, seemed to say the same thing. Cut down Gaius and they could be thirty paces away before Marcus emerged, or any of Gaius’ other tent mates reacted. Duck down that avenue and they stood a decent chance of losing themselves among the tent lines, from where they could trace a path back to the principia.
The option was fraught with risk. Failure to kill Gaius would result in a sword fight here, against overwhelming odds. The guy ropes holding up the tents were difficult to wend past at a walk, never mind a sprint. One trip, and either he or Vitellius would have a snapped ankle – the prelude to a far nastier fate. The legionaries they’d meet during their flight – of which there would be many – might obstruct their path, or even attack them. Scaling the rampart at the principia would render them as helpless as babes.
Hannibal or the sea? Piso wondered, pulse hammering, mouth bone dry. The sea or Hannibal?
‘Stop him!?
??
Every head turned towards the cry, which had originated further up the avenue. The distinctive sound of hobnails pounding off the earth came next.
‘Halt that officer! He’s making for the principia!’
Like every man within earshot, Gaius’ attention had moved, in his case away from Piso and Vitellius. Piso was about to suggest, sotto voce, that they make a run for it, but the sight of scores of legionaries charging towards them put paid to that idea. If Gaius denounced them, as he would, half the mob could easily split away from their prey – a lone officer – to pursue him and Vitellius.
They had to remain where they were, and as Vitellius tugged out his sword, Piso realised with horror that he had to copy the move. Not to do so would reveal his loyalty more truly than a wrong answer to any of Gaius’ probing questions.
‘With me, brothers,’ roared Gaius, moving to the middle of the avenue. ‘We can’t let the cocksucker escape!’
Piso took up a position to Gaius’ right – which brought him closer to the tent lines opposite. Vitellius did likewise. Gaius’ comrades, with Marcus among them presumably, soon joined them, swords and shields in hand. So too did a dozen other legionaries from their unit. It took no time to form a solid line across the avenue. Piso’s palms grew sweaty as he saw that the officer – a centurion, from the look of his phalerae and other decorations – was aimed straight for him. Was he going to have to murder a man to save his own skin? Piso didn’t know if he could, but the bloodlust-filled faces swarming behind the terrified centurion were a strong persuader.
In twenty paces, he would have to decide.
Eighteen.
‘Come on, you maggot,’ shouted Gaius, neck veins bulging. ‘There’s no way through for you here.’
Sixteen.
Bile stung the back of Piso’s throat. He swallowed it down, gripped his sword until his fist hurt.
Fourteen.
‘Gut him!’ screamed one of the centurion’s pursuers. ‘He murdered the sentry outside his tent!’
An animal roar went up from Gaius and the rest. Vitellius’ voice joined in, and Piso was ashamed to hear his own too. The centurion was so close now that he could make out the scars left on the man’s cheeks by the pox, the sweat beading his brow and even the colour of his eyes – slate grey.
Eight steps, and Piso tensed. He would stab the centurion if he had to. The man’s death was certain – why add his own, and possibly that of Vitellius, to the ugly mixture?
The centurion had conquered his fear – or at least made peace with it. Slowing his pace, he dropped a shoulder towards Piso and readied his right arm, which held a bloodied gladius.
Crushing panic suffused Piso’s every pore. Chances were he was going to die in the next few heartbeats. Like the centurion, he had no shield, which made sliding a blade into him that much easier.
‘Die, you filth!’ bawled Gaius, darting forward.
Too late, the centurion’s gaze moved from Piso. Too slow, he tried to twist and face the new threat. His eyes widened with shock, then fear, then pain as Gaius’ sword rammed deep into his groin. A cracked wail left his lips and there was a thump as, carried forward by their momentum, the two men collided, chest to chest. Gaius delivered a savage head-butt, and blood spurted from the centurion’s smashed nose.
Gaius gripped the centurion’s shoulder with his left hand, steadying him so that he could drive his blade even deeper. ‘How d’you like that, you mongrel?’
The answer was a low, awful moan. The sound of a man in mortal agony. It had the same effect as a trussed-up criminal revealed in the arena to a pride of starving lions. Legionaries drove in from every side, their sword points searching for a home in the centurion’s flesh. Eight, ten, twelve wounds blossomed on his neck, arms and legs.
Struck rigid, Piso watched in horror.
‘Let’s go!’ Vitellius’ breath was hot in his ear.
Like a drunk waking, sore-headed, in an alley, Piso came back to life. He stared at Vitellius. ‘Eh?’
‘They’ll kill us next. Come on.’ Vitellius took his right wrist in a grip of iron.
With shame scourging every part of him, Piso turned and ran.
Chapter VIII
FORTUNE HAD FAVOURED Piso and Vitellius, thought Tullus when they reported to him that evening. Fortune, and the bloodlust that had swept over Gaius and the rest. No one had pursued them into the tent lines. After a hundred paces, and three sharp turns – left, right, right – which had taken them out of the line of sight of the avenue, Piso explained how he’d thought to slow to a walk. Everyone looks at the man who is running, he told Tullus, but the man who walks draws no more than passing attention. So it had proved. Emboldened by their success – and intimidated by the reception Tullus would have given them if they returned early – the pair had continued with their mission. Because Gaius’ friend Marcus had acquaintances in the Twentieth Legion, they had visited the First’s tent lines.
All had gone well there, and the pair had spent the morning watching a set of wrestling matches organised by the bored legionaries. A large crowd had gathered to watch the contests, and food- and wine-sellers had come in from outside the camp. It had been perfect ground for wandering about and eavesdropping on conversations.
For the most part, Tullus brooded, what they’d heard was bad. It seemed that Gaius’ information had been accurate. Almost every soldier in the four legions – the First, the Fifth, the Twentieth and the Twenty-First – had rebelled. Perhaps fifty legionaries appeared to be in charge; their number included Bony Face, Fat Nose and the twins. More than a score of centurions had been murdered. More senior officers were being held captive in their tents, with the obvious exception of the tribune who had been slain.
There was talk of violence beyond the camp’s walls. Some civilians had been killed, and women raped. There were even rumours of attacking the nearest town, Ara Ubiorum. About the only cheering news was the fact that, as far as Piso and Vitellius could tell, none of Caecina’s messengers had been apprehended.
That meant, thought Tullus, that Germanicus would know by now what had happened. He would arrive soon. What would happen then was anyone’s guess – the mutineers weren’t going to lie down and present their throats like submissive dogs. Too much blood had been shed for that.
How many more lives would be lost?
Tullus continued to send out his men each day, with Caecina’s blessing. On the fifth day, Piso returned earlier than normal, bearing the news that Germanicus had been seen nearing the camp. A delighted Tullus took him straight to Caecina, who was incarcerated in his office with the primi pili, the most senior centurions of the four legions.
Caecina’s delight at Piso’s news didn’t last. ‘Imagine if the mutineers fall upon him,’ he declared. ‘The governor must not enter the camp until it is safe! Word must be sent to him at once.’
‘I’ll go, sir,’ offered Tullus. ‘I can pass myself off as a veteran.’
Caecina studied Tullus for a moment. ‘The mutineers have a point about men serving for too long, eh?’ His frankness made the primi pili give each other surprised looks, but Tullus nodded.
It wasn’t unusual for a centurion to be almost fifty years old, but ordinary legionaries, who joined the army at eighteen or nineteen, were eligible for discharge at forty-three or -four. Poor record-keeping and insufficient numbers of recruits meant that this deadline was often ‘overlooked’ by the more unscrupulous centurions. No wonder men had grievances, thought Tullus, and shame on Caecina for not doing something about it before. ‘With your permission, sir, I will take my optio and twenty men.’
‘Do as you see fit. Just make sure that you reach the governor outside the camp. He will have an escort, but because he’ll be riding like a demon, it’s bound to be small. Things could easily go wrong, and I don’t want to be held accountable for the death of the emperor’s heir as well as the cursed mutiny.’
Tullus winced inwardly. If Germanicus was slain, and he was also blamed, the d
eath penalty would beckon. His dead soldiers would never be avenged, and he would lose any chance of recovering the Eighteenth’s eagle. He threw back his shoulders. ‘I’ll see the governor into your presence, sir. I swear it, on my life.’
Wandering the camp out of uniform, pretending that he was an ordinary legionary, was a bizarre experience for Tullus. His secret visit to Rome with Fenestela had been one of the only times that he had acted in such a way. That had taken some getting used to, but it had not been as risk-laden. Here, among so many soldiers, Tullus expected to be recognised as an officer at every turn. To this end, he had pulled the hood of his cloak up, and walked along with his head down, letting Piso and the others guide his path. They all wore swords under their cloaks, but none were in armour. So few of the mutinous soldiers were in full kit that to do so would have drawn immediate attention to themselves.
Tullus was able to gain an impression of the situation as they made their way towards the camp’s northernmost gate, the entrance at which Germanicus would arrive. At first glance, things appeared normal enough. The legionaries’ tents were still in position. So too were some of the unit standards. Yet there were gaps in the tent lines that shouldn’t have been present; Tullus saw that most of the centurions’ large tents had been torn down. A closer look revealed that they had been slashed to pieces, or burned. Near more than one tent, tell-tale bloodstains bore witness to darker deeds. Rubbish lay underfoot everywhere – discarded amphorae of wine, broken plates, rinds of cheese, and a sandal with a broken strap. There were items that had to have been pilfered from officers’ quarters and then discarded: an iron-bound chest lying on its side, a half-unrolled fine carpet, a massive cast-iron stand with hooks for two dozen oil lamps. The stink of urine, and worse, was proof that reaching the latrines had not been a priority for many.
If the camp looked vaguely normal from a distance, its inhabitants did not. The mutinous legionaries lounged about before their tents, or roamed the avenues in large, unruly groups. A significant number were drunk. Crowds of them were heading in the same direction as Tullus and his men, and from their conversations, it seemed that they too wanted to see Germanicus, and lay before him their demands.