Hunting the Eagles (8 page)

TULLUS WAS WALKING
back to his unit’s position from a friend’s tent, where he had consumed a decent quantity of wine, and put the world to rights. A fuzzy good mood encased him – the world always seemed a better place after an evening drinking in agreeable company. Despite the warm glow in his belly, it was impossible not to notice that the legionaries outside their tents seemed quieter than usual. Of an evening, it was the norm for men to sit and stand about, bantering with one another, telling filthy jokes and talking in loud voices. There was none of that tonight.

Tullus was accustomed to men avoiding his centurion’s gaze. Now he felt the weight of many stares as he passed each little group. If he turned his head, however, the soldiers were quick to look away, or to study their campfires. Tullus didn’t like it one bit, but he would prove nothing by challenging everyone in his path, so he marched on, affecting not to notice the unusual and unwanted attention.

The legionaries’ mood was linked to the disquieting calm that had enveloped the camp as the news of Augustus’ passing had spread – he was sure of it. Tullus had experienced something equally disconcerting once before, during the terrible time that had followed the ambush in the forest. The low morale and sad mood then had been because of a shattering defeat, not an emperor’s death, but the feeling in the air now was angrier. More dangerous. Tullus worried that it was linked to the continuing rumours of unrest among the legionaries, and prayed with the same breath that it was not.

Matters weren’t being helped by the inaction of Aulus Caecina Severus, the governor of Germania Inferior. Tullus couldn’t work out Caecina’s motive for doing nothing – in
his
book, decisiveness was
always
better than indecisiveness. Yet Caecina had delivered no impassioned speech praising Augustus’ rule and looking forward to Tiberius’ steady hand at the empire’s helm. In fact, he had made no announcements at all. He hadn’t even ordered a parade in honour of the dead emperor, which would have raised spirits and provided cause for drunken celebration. Germanicus might have done something, but
he
was far away in Gallia Belgica, supervising the collection of tax information.

The air of foreboding was added to by the soothsayers who had appeared in the camp, attracted like wolves to a fresh carcase. Patrolling the avenues, they offered their services without challenge, and proclaimed that tumultuous times awaited everyone in the empire. Tullus had heard one startling revelation from a soothsayer in the past, but it had not altered his opinion that the vast majority of them were complete charlatans. The day before, he had personally run off the first one spotted by his century’s lines, beating the man with his
vitis
, or vine stick, until his arm grew tired. He had ordered the sentries to mete out similar treatment to any others they saw.

Spotting two figures engaged in quiet conversation by his tent, Tullus wondered if another soothsayer was looking for custom. His pace quickened, and he readied his vitis. ‘If it’s the same fool I saw yesterday,’ he muttered to himself, ‘I’ll tear him a new arsehole.’

To Tullus’ surprise, it was Piso and Vitellius. ‘What are you up to?’ he growled. ‘Fancy yourselves some extra sentry duty?’

Piso let out an uneasy laugh. ‘No, sir.’

‘Clear off then. I’m tired.’

Piso shuffled his feet, but he didn’t move. Surprised, Tullus was about to raise his voice when Piso whispered, ‘Can we have a word with you, sir, in private?’

The request was unusual in itself, but the pair’s nervousness was also odd. ‘Very well.’ Tullus glanced left and right, and was pleased that there were no soldiers close by. ‘Sit.’ He planted himself on the three-legged stool that had replaced the one he’d lost, with so much else, during the ambush. The two men sat cross-legged in the dirt, on either side of his still-glowing fire. ‘Speak,’ Tullus ordered.

Piso looked at Vitellius, who nodded. Encouraged, Piso began, ‘I don’t know how to say this, sir, other than straight out.’ He lowered his voice even further. ‘There’s talk of mutiny.’

‘Mutiny?’ Tullus rolled his tongue around a suddenly dry mouth. Three decades he’d been in the army without witnessing such a thing. This might explain the camp’s unhappy atmosphere, he thought. ‘Tell me everything, from the start.’

He listened, grim-faced, as Piso spoke of the illegal gathering that he and Vitellius had witnessed. They had just been going to play dice, Piso repeated multiple times. In the end, Tullus told him to stop, that he knew they were both loyal – why else would they have come to him?

When Piso revealed that there had been men from his century there, Tullus held up a hand. It didn’t surprise him that much – there were malcontents throughout the army – but it rankled. A lot. ‘Give me their names.’

After a brief hesitation, Piso obeyed.

‘Only three?’ demanded Tullus, thinking: there are more conscripts and pissed-off veterans than that under my command. Fenestela spoke of six to ten.

‘Those were the only ones I saw, sir, on my life.’

Commanding Piso to finish his story, Tullus stared into the orange-red embers of his fire, pondering what to do. A deeper gloom took him after Piso related how Bony Face had directed those present to recruit as many men as possible. Was it already too late to act? Tullus wondered, jabbing a stick at the burning logs until trails of sparks wandered up into the darkening sky. If it wasn’t, what was the best action to take?

To arrest Bony Face and his cronies, as well as the three men seen by Piso, would be a start, he decided, and better than nothing. Unless the centurions of each cohort were blind, deaf and dumb, they would have a fair idea of the troublemakers within their units. A lightning-quick exercise carried out by loyal troops under the cover of darkness could see the ringleaders, or most of them, incarcerated before dawn. The potential mutiny would be nipped in the bud.

For that to happen, however, Tullus would need to persuade Septimius, his prick of a senior centurion, of the danger – and after him, a tribune. If Tullus managed to get that far, he had the mountain-sized problem that was his legate Tubero to contend with.

The man had been a pain in the arse since he first appeared, five years ago, thought Tullus. It was usual for noblemen to serve as legion tribunes from the age of twenty and upward, but Tubero’s father’s friendship with the emperor had seen him appointed at the tender age of seventeen. His subsequent rash behaviour and refusal to listen to Tullus’ advice had helped to push one of the German tribes towards rebellion. The headstrong youth had escaped Arminius’ ambush thanks only to a veteran who’d chanced upon him – so said a centurion friend of Tullus, who knew the soldier concerned. In the years since, Tubero had risen to the rank of legate. It was Tullus’ ill fortune that he had been appointed to the Fifth Legion.

Even if Tullus could get past Tubero, above him, like Jupiter on his throne raised over the other gods, was Caecina. Success seemed so improbable that Tullus wanted to groan out loud. Conscious of Piso and Vitellius’ eyes on him, he made no outward show of emotion. ‘You did well to bring this news to me. Keep your ears to the ground. Report anything else you hear to me, double quick.’ He jerked his head, dismissing them.

Rising, Vitellius saluted and made to leave, but Piso lingered. ‘What are you going to do, sir?’

Tullus’ instinct was to bite his head off, but Piso deserved better than that. ‘I need evidence,’ he said. ‘
I
believe you, but your word isn’t enough to persuade someone like Legate Tubero that the sewer is about to burst. I’m going to do a little eavesdropping between now and the morning. Thanks to you, I know the right place to start.’

Piso looked as unhappy as Tullus felt about this far-from-certain tactic, but he was powerless to protest. ‘Very good, sir. With your permission.’ He strode off towards his tent.

Tullus went to find Fenestela. He needed someone to confide in. He also needed more wine.

A lot of it.

Some time before the sun had risen the following morning, Tullus was stealing down the narrow ‘corridor’ that ran between the back of his men’s tents and those of another century. Experience had taught him that this was one of the best places to listen in on soldiers’ conversations. This was not something he’d had to do much, but it was useful upon occasion, and necessary in this uncertain time. The trumpets to wake the camp had not yet been blown, but he and Fenestela had already roused the soldiers, so there was chatter to overhear. They were going on a twenty-mile march, Tullus had bawled, so they had to be up, breakfasted and ready to leave within the hour.

As he’d expected, most of the talk was complaining about the impending march. Tullus listened, smiling, to the bitching about him and Fenestela. Such talk was normal, and of no concern. What he didn’t like were the comments by men who grumbled that the other centuries in the cohort weren’t marching, so why should they? The sentiment wasn’t serious enough to warrant intervening, though, so he kept picking his way over the tent ropes, hoping that nothing would come of his spying. Each step that took him nearer to the tent which held the three soldiers seen by Piso felt more and more ominous, however.

‘Where d’you hear that?’ demanded a voice in the fifth tent – the one he’d been aiming for.

The tone brought Tullus to a dead halt.

‘At the meeting,’ replied a second voice, one Tullus recognised as a conscript of five years’ standing.

‘It’s a dangerous thing, gathering without permission,’ said the first voice.

‘Mebbe it is, but we didn’t get caught. What’s important is the way that legionary was talking. Most of the men in the four legions are going to take part, I’m telling you. We should too. As he said, any officers who try to stop us can have a good beating – or worse.’

‘Not Tullus, surely?’ protested the first voice. ‘He’s tough, but he is a good centurion.’

‘If the man’s got any sense, he will keep his head down,’ replied the conscript. ‘No harm will come to him then.’

‘Tullus keep his head down? Ha!’ The first soldier made an unhappy noise. ‘I won’t raise my hand to him. No way.’

‘Nor will I,’ chimed a third man, and a fourth, making Tullus’ heart lift.

‘You’re fools,’ swore the conscript. ‘Forget about Tullus. Think about the miserable amount you’re paid, and the way you’re worked like slaves.’

‘I’m with you,’ said a fifth voice. There was silence from the rest, and Tullus wondered if he should act, or seek out the support of Fenestela. It might even be better to do nothing.

There was no time like the present, Tullus decided. He was unarmed, but the soldiers could well be too, and they wouldn’t expect him to appear from nowhere. Surprise often made for success in battle. He padded on between the side of the tent and its neighbour. Halfway towards the front, he began to hit his vitis off the leather-panelled roof.
Thwack. Thwack.
‘Outside, you maggots!’ he roared.
Thwack.
‘OUTSIDE, NOW!’

He was standing at the tent’s front flap as its inhabitants emerged, one by one. Tullus was pleased that only two met his eye, and just one was armed, the conscript. He and the other man were the pair who had been urging the rest to join them. They hadn’t succeeded, though, which meant that Tullus had the advantage. ‘Form up!’ he shouted. ‘Here, in front of the tent. Move!’

The eight legionaries shuffled into a ragged line. The century’s other soldiers watched, curious, as Tullus stalked along in front of them, delivering an icy stare to each. ‘You’ve been talking about mutiny, eh?’ He stopped before the conscript with the dagger. ‘Eh?’ Down by his right side, Tullus held his vitis at the ready. He was almost positive that he could drive it into the soldier’s solar plexus if the fool thought about drawing his blade. ‘Talk to me, if you’re not to spend the next six months cleaning out the latrines!’

The man’s courage wilted, as a plucked flower does without water. ‘It’s nothing but talk, sir.’

‘Is that right?’ Vitis still ready, Tullus shoved his face into the face of the second soldier who’d spoken, a salt-and-pepper bearded veteran. ‘What’s this about beating up centurions, or
worse
?’

To his credit, this man held his gaze. ‘That’s just anger talking, sir. Men are unhappy about their conditions. Me, I’ve served twenty-four years. I’m almost entitled to my discharge, but there are others in a worse boat.’

‘If your words are true, there are wrongs that need to be righted,’ said Tullus with a nod. ‘But it doesn’t entitle you, or any other legionary, to
mutiny
.
Mutiny
.’ He glared at the veteran. This time, the man’s eyes dropped away. So did the conscript’s. ‘If I hear so much as a fucking whisper about this again, you will all be running circuits of the parade ground until you fucking
drop
. There’ll be no discharge or rise in pay because you will have all died of exhaustion! As it is, you two will receive ten lashes of the whip, and take care of the century’s latrines until we break camp. Every three days for the same period, you will also make a twenty-mile march, under the supervision of Fenestela. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the legionaries mumbled.

‘Louder,’ roared Tullus, bringing down his vitis on the veteran’s shoulders, and then those of his companion, three, four, five times – and another for good measure.

‘YES, SIR!’ the eight soldiers yelled.

‘Back into your tent, the lot of you.’ Tullus walked away, exposing his back, sure that he had cowed them. His confidence was soured by the knowledge that his victory had been temporary. It sounded as if the men had reasonable grounds for their grievances, and the threat of mutiny remained high. Throughout the camp, the conversation he had just overheard would be taking place – without officers being aware. Bad feeling spread fast, and talk of mutiny would spread even faster. This was the proof he needed, he decided.

It was time to take the matter to his superior officer.