Hunting the Eagles (10 page)

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 others 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.

‘CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA!’

The centurion in charge of the entrance to the principia gaped at Caecina’s order to pull aside the wagon that straddled the opening.

‘Do as I say!’ commanded Caecina.

‘Yes, sir.’ The centurion rapped out an order. A dozen legionaries placed their shoulders against the back of the wagon and shifted it five, ten paces. ‘That’s enough!’ called the centurion. He saluted Caecina. ‘Want me to accompany you, sir, with some of my boys?’

‘My soldiers can come too, sir,’ volunteered Tullus.

‘An honour guard will do,’ said Caecina. ‘A dozen of your men, Tullus.’

Tullus cursed inside. It was one thing for him to die at the hands of a baying mob, but he didn’t want his soldiers to do so. He’d been given a direct order, however. ‘Fenestela! Pick eleven men and get over here.’

‘CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA!’

A moment later, Fenestela trotted over. The soldiers he’d picked were veterans, among them Piso and Vitellius.

‘I’ll go first, sir,’ volunteered Tullus.

‘Very well.’ Caecina adjusted his red sash, and brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from his burnished cuirass. ‘The gods be with us.’

‘CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA!’

‘No one should touch his sword, sir, or make any threatening move,’ Tullus advised Caecina. ‘I cannot emphasise that enough.’

‘I understand. You’re to do as Tullus says,’ said Caecina to the other senior officers.

‘Not a fucking twitch of a muscle unless I say so,’ Tullus commanded his men. ‘You hear me?’

‘Aye, sir.’ His soldiers looked scared, but steady.

‘Follow me,’ ordered Tullus. Despite what he’d just said to Caecina, it took all of his self-control not to unsheathe his own gladius. There was every chance that the mob might fall on them as they emerged, but to appear with a drawn weapon would only invite that response.

A wave of catcalls, derisive whistles and insults descended as they filed out. It was impossible not to find the waiting horde intimidating. At least five hundred legionaries, if not more, had assembled before the entrance. They were armoured, and many carried blades in their hands. More than one of those was bloody. To a man, their faces were hard. Expectant. Fierce.

These were the angriest, most determined of the mutineers, thought Tullus, ordering his soldiers to spread out in a line in front of Caecina and the other officers. To confront the governor in this manner took courage. Like as not, every troublemaker from the four legions was here – and they seemed prepared to shed blood.

A bony-faced, sunken-cheeked legionary was in a position of prominence, several steps in front of his fellows. This had to be the man mentioned by Piso. Three others were with him. Tullus recognised two, the twins described by Piso and Vitellius; with them was another man, a slight soldier with thinning hair and a bulbous, sausage-like nose. ‘If things turn to shit,’ he muttered to the nearest of his legionaries, ‘we kill those four first. Pass it on.’ It wouldn’t save their lives, but it might stall the mutineers long enough to allow Caecina to get back inside the principia.

The noise made by the mob redoubled when they saw Caecina. Bony Face and his companions threw each other triumphant looks. It wasn’t surprising, thought Tullus. Ordinary legionaries never spoke to the governor, let alone summoned him forth like a whipped dog from its kennel. This moment turned everything that was normal on its head.

Whatever else Caecina was, he wasn’t short of backbone. Ignoring Tullus’ restraining arm, he stepped forward until there were only a dozen paces between him and the mutineers’ leaders. A hush fell. ‘Here I am,’ cried Caecina. ‘What do you wish of me?’

‘Our demands are simple,’ said Bony Face. ‘We want a raise in pay – a decent one, mind. The period of service is to be cut back to its original sixteen years, and all soldiers who have served twenty years will be allowed their discharge. That’s it.’ He gave his companions a satisfied nod, and folded his arms.

‘Although I am governor, I do not have the authority to make such decisions,’ said Caecina. He tried to continue, but so many insults were being hurled that it was impossible for him to be heard.

When the clamour had died down, Bony Face was first to speak. ‘Is this your final answer?’ he demanded, the contempt dripping from his voice.

‘I am not trying to be difficult. Understand that I cannot implement such far-reaching changes without the emperor’s authority,’ said Caecina.

Again the legionaries roared their displeasure.

‘Don’t pretend that you’re powerless, or without influence!’ Bony Face stabbed a finger towards Caecina. ‘You fucking senators and equestrians! You’re so high and mighty, so superior. You take us for fools, who you can treat no better than slaves. Understand that those days are over! Bring forth the prisoner.’

Four legionaries emerged from the throng, dragging a centurion whose arms and legs were bound. The man raised his head, and Tullus took in a dismayed breath. It was Septimius. Beaten, dazed-looking and with two black eyes, but Septimius nonetheless.

Bony Face drew his sword and stepped to Septimius’ side. ‘Have you anything to say, filth?’ he hissed.

‘Let me go,’ said Septimius. His eyes fixed on Caecina. ‘Don’t let them kill me, sir, please.’

Tullus clenched his fists. Prick though Septimius was, he didn’t deserve to be treated like this.

‘How pathetic,’ said Bony Face with a sneer. ‘What have you to say, governor? Will you meet our demands?’

Caecina’s mouth worked. ‘I told you. Without permission from the emperor, I cannot. I will do my best, however, to see that they are given the consideration that they merit.’

‘Hear him!’ Bony Face turned to the mob behind him and repeated in a mocking tone. ‘
The consideration they merit?
Is that good enough for us?’

‘NOOOOOOO!’ Purple-faced, neck veins bulging, and brandishing their swords, the mutineers screamed their disdain. Bony Face and his three cronies swaggered to and fro before them, egging the crowd on.

Tullus moved to Caecina’s side, and spoke into his ear. ‘If we move
right now
, sir, we might be able to cut down the legionaries holding Septimius and drag him to safety.’

Caecina’s eyes flickered from left to right, over the mob.

‘We have to do it
now
, sir,’ whispered Tullus.

‘They’ll kill us,’ replied Caecina.

Waves of impotent fury battered Tullus’ mind. He wasn’t sure that they could save Septimius, but they had to try. ‘Sir—’