Hunting the Eagles (33 page)

‘Find anything, Piso?’ he called.

‘No, sir.’

Tullus felt another stab of disappointment. ‘Keep looking.’

A muffled curse from his right made him turn. Fenestela had been working the scrubby ground that ran on into an area of bog, a muddier job than anyone else’s. He was picking himself up, and muttering filthy curses.

‘Lost a sandal?’ asked Tullus.

‘I tripped over a skeleton.’

They had each done the same. ‘Hurt?’ asked Tullus. ‘Just my pride.’

Chuckling, Tullus stoppered his water-carrier and balanced it on his right hip again. Vitis at the ready, he took a step forward, his eyes searching for clues. Fortuna, be kind, he asked. Just this once.

There was another loud oath from Fenestela.

‘Fallen on your arse this time?’ shouted Tullus.

‘Sir!’

The urgency in that one word brought Tullus’ head snapping up. He peered at Fenestela. Even at a distance, it was clear his optio was rattled. ‘What?’

‘Come and see, sir.’

Fenestela’s reluctance to say more had Tullus moving at once. Three dozen strides, and he found Fenestela standing by a massive fallen trunk.

‘I was working my way around it, and didn’t see this poor bastard,’ said Fenestela, gesturing at a skeleton that was lying under a branch forking off the main body. ‘I’d say he crawled in there to die.’

‘A quiet place to breathe his last,’ said Tullus. ‘What else have you found?’

Fenestela pointed.

Tullus leaned in closer. The rusted segmented armour, mildewed leather straps and still-beautiful gilded belt decorations were the same as a thousand he’d seen before, but Fenestela hadn’t called him over for those. He lifted the helmet, which Fenestela had eased off the skull, and peered under the neck guard. There was no inscribed name. As he laid it back down beside its owner, Tullus’ gaze fell on something silver. He focused on something lying beneath the skeleton. ‘This?’ he asked, pointing.

‘Aye.’

Tullus realised he was looking at a silvered spear tip, which had once served as the top of a century’s standard. His heart beat faster. The soldier who’d been carrying it wasn’t a signifer, like as not, because he wasn’t in scale armour. That meant he’d taken it from the fallen standard-bearer and tried to carry it to safety. In a way, he had succeeded, Tullus thought sadly, because the tribesmen hadn’t found the standard. Yet the wounded soldier hadn’t got far. Tullus hoped he had not lingered, listening to the slaughter of his comrades.

Tullus rolled the skeleton a little to the left. Beneath the spear tip, the wooden staff had mouldered away, but the distinctive copper alloy discs and crescents that decorated a century’s standard remained where the shaft would have been. Green now rather than golden-brown, they had been pressed into the earth by the soldier’s weight. A line of metallic dots marked the outline of the silvered pendants that had once hung from either side of the standard’s crossbar.

Tullus picked up one of the discs and cleaned the dirt from its face. It was plain, and disappointment flooded through him. The same applied to the next disc, and the next, but his luck changed with the fourth. Using a fingernail to scrape away dirt from the concave surface, Tullus’ eyes devoured the raised lettering that emerged: COH•II•LEG•XIIX. Over and over, he read the inscription. His pulse hammered in his ears. The standard was from one of the centuries in his cohort, and that meant that the skeletons around him had been some of
his
legionaries. Which century they had belonged to, Tullus couldn’t be sure. Tears pricked his eyes regardless.

‘What does it say?’ Fenestela’s voice was anxious.

Without a word, Tullus handed over the disc.

‘Jupiter,’ said Fenestela. ‘Fucking Jupiter on high.’

Tullus lifted another disc – it was blank – and another. It had no inscription either; nor did the next one. Soon there was only one before the hand grip attached by most signiferi to make carrying the standard easier. He eased the last disc and the grip free from the earth at the same time, tapping off the attached clods of earth against one of his greaves.

Tullus threw a casual glance at the grip first. It had been fashioned from deer horn, a common material, but what made it unusual was the cap of silver foil covering its free end. ‘Look,’ he said, his voice thick with sudden emotion.

Fenestela’s ruddy face lost its remaining colour. ‘It’s
our
standard.
Our
standard.’

Julius, their signifer, had fashioned the covering himself from silver foil, making the grip as unique as a man’s scars. Tullus and Fenestela shared a glance then, this one laden with raw grief, and Tullus turned over the last disc in his hand. CENT•I, he read. Grief – and terrible memories – washed over him anew. A tear dropped from his eye on to the lettering, and a tiny part of Tullus was surprised that it didn’t turn blood red. ‘I don’t remember seeing Julius die. He was still with us on the last day, wasn’t he?’

‘Aye,’ said Fenestela. ‘I can’t recall him falling either. One of the others must have grabbed the standard when he did, and tried to get away with it.’

‘We must have already gone.’ Feeling guilty all over again, Tullus reached down and patted the dead man’s skull. ‘You did your best, brother. Rest in peace now. The standard is back with us.’

Straightening, he found every soldier in sight watching. It wasn’t surprising, thought Tullus. Fenestela calling him over would have alerted them. He cupped a hand to his lips. ‘We’ve found our century’s standard. Tread light, brothers. Every skeleton lying around you is that of a comrade.’

The words were barely out of Tullus’ mouth before his long-held-in grief struck him with the force of a storm wave hitting a harbour wall. He dropped to one knee beside the skeleton, and a sob escaped him. Beside him he heard Fenestela, a man he’d never known to give in to sorrow, weeping.

No one spoke for a long time.

In the end, Tullus mastered his pain by force of will. Getting to his feet, he ordered his men to begin the terrible task of burying their comrades.

They had started before midday. Now the sun was low on the horizon and every part of Tullus ached. His arms, his shoulders, his thighs, his back – especially his back. Hours of swinging a pickaxe had brought up blisters – new, ruptured, forming – over both his palms. The neck scarf that he’d tied around his forehead was soaked through with sweat and, under his mail, his tunic was stuck fast to his back. Waves of exhaustion battered at him, and at last he had to stop digging. He had done his bit, Tullus told himself, and there were plenty of willing and able men. Every one of his old legionaries was there, labouring with grim purpose on the mass grave. His and Fenestela’s voices weren’t needed, nor his vitis. In fact, Tullus hadn’t heard a single complaint in that time, nor seen a man stop working other than to take a mouthful of water.

He could not rest for long – he wasn’t able. Six years he’d been unable to do anything for his slain men. Now his moment had come. Wielding a pickaxe was beyond him, so Tullus began carrying the skeletons they had wrapped in blankets and, with great reverence, lowering them down into the pit. It was emotional, horrific work, and he couldn’t help but wonder which legionary each bundle of bones might have been.

A tight band of pain wrapped itself around his chest after a while, but he ignored it. He would not stand by and watch, even if the effort killed him. These are
my
men, Tullus thought,
my fucking men
. I couldn’t save their lives, but I can see them into the ground and say a prayer over their remains. Let me do that, Mars, d’you hear me? Fortuna, are you listening? I
will
do this. And next time you show yourself, Arminius, things will be different. I’ll be ready.

A MONTH HAD
passed, and Germanicus’ reprisals against the German tribes continued. The army moved ever eastward, searching out fresh settlements to destroy. No more eagles had been found, and Arminius had not been brought to bay, but Tullus remained hopeful. He forced his horse a few paces to the right, and off the road. ‘Keep marching,’ he bellowed.

‘Another piss stop for the centurion,’ commented one of the legionaries. ‘He’s been on the wine again,’ said another. Tullus pretended not to hear – his men could have their fun as long as they obeyed orders. He didn’t need to empty his bladder – they would see that soon enough.

Under his watchful eye, his century marched past,
tramp, tramp, tramp
, pounding flat the grass. By the time the rest of the vast army had passed, there would be nothing left underfoot but a fine powder. One of the benefits of being in the vanguard, thought Tullus, was not having to breathe in the dust cast into the air by tens of thousands of others. Another was that he had a good idea of what was going on – both from his viewpoint, and thanks to regular reports from the scouts and cavalry.

He craned his head, searching for Fenestela’s staff of office, a difficult thing to spot over the bobbing rows of helmets, yokes and javelins. It was a pain in the arse, Tullus decided for the ten-thousandth time in his career, that army protocol dictated an optio should march at the back of his century, while the centurion rode or walked at the front. Talking to Fenestela would leaven the drudgery of each day’s long march. Instead Tullus had to rely on occasional moments like this, when he broke ranks to have a word. Despite his irritation, the positioning made sense. If and when they were attacked, Fenestela’s role at the back would be vital, as was his own at the front.

Fenestela spotted him and lifted his staff in salute.

‘Everything all right, optio?’ Tullus called.

‘Yes, sir.’ Fenestela made a swift turn to his right, and with a few steps passed into the gap behind the last rank and the next century. He resumed marching to the left of their men, and Tullus nudged his horse forward, beside him. It was something they’d done innumerable times.

Fenestela spoke first. ‘Any news from the scouts?’

‘Not a thing. The countryside is empty, they say,’ replied Tullus, scowling. It wasn’t surprising that the tribespeople should flee into the forests and that Arminius and his warriors were avoiding direct confrontation, but gods, it was frustrating. A man could derive scant satisfaction from razing empty villages to the ground, and knowing that the last eagles were secreted deep in a cave or the like, far from the Romans. There had been some attacks, in the main ambushes on scouts and soldiers searching for food, but they had been inconsequential. Losing a handful of legionaries here and a dozen auxiliaries there harmed Germanicus’ army no more than a wasp sting bothered a bear.

‘How many days have we been looking for Arminius?’

‘Thirty-one.’ Tullus glanced at the fields of stubble sprawling off to his left. The harvest had been taken in, and for the most part, hidden from the Romans. Summer was drawing to a close. As vast and invulnerable as it was, the army couldn’t remain here, hundreds of miles from the Rhenus, for much longer. Supplies would soon begin to run low, and only a fool would countenance staying in enemy territory until they ran out. ‘Thirty-fucking-one.’

‘I wish Arminius would just fight,’ said Fenestela.

‘Every man in the army thinks the same, but time is on his side – not ours. The clever bastard has no great need to worry about food, or when autumn comes.’

Fenestela cocked his head. ‘Has Germanicus decided when we’ll return to camp?’ Tullus had been to a meeting of senior officers at dawn, but they hadn’t yet spoken about it.

‘No. He’s as frustrated as everyone else, and wants a victory before we go home.’

‘It would do all of us good,’ said Fenestela with a scowl.

Tullus’ ‘Aye’ was heartfelt, yet it wouldn’t magic the Germans out of thin air. Nor would Fenestela’s sentiments. It was crazy, even foolhardy, but Tullus almost wished that Arminius would spring another ambush. At least they would then have a chance to face him.

Tullus’ wishes were in vain. The day passed like the thirty before it, without incident.

Things changed on the thirty-third day. Whether it was because Arminius now had sufficient numbers of warriors, or because the Romans were so far from home, no one knew, but his forces began to harry the legions. From dawn until dusk, stinging attacks were launched on the marching column – first the scouts, then the vanguard or the baggage train and next the rearguard. They never lasted for long, and the tribesmen were careful not to engage the Romans head-on.

Deep-throated renditions of the barritus frayed the legionaries’ nerves, in particular when no assault followed. At other times, volleys of spears and sling bullets would come hurtling out of the trees without warning. Casualties were often light – several men injured, an occasional fatality, but the air of tension hanging over the army was ratcheted ever higher. No one had any idea when or where the next attack would fall, which kept everyone from Tullus to the lowest ranker on edge every waking hour of the day.

Darkness did not grant the Romans peace. The tribesmen seemed to have no end of tricks in their inventory. The first night, it was intermittent performances of the barritus; the next saw numerous pigs being slaughtered over several hours, close to the camp; during a third, parties of warriors, their faces and hands blackened, scaled the walls and slit the throats of half a dozen sentries.