Hunting the Eagles (9 page)

AFTER ADVISING FENESTELA
and his other junior officers of what he’d heard, Tullus went to Septimius. He would have preferred to go over his senior centurion’s head, but protocol had to be followed. A cynical individual with a sour face and spiky grey hair, Septimius had a privately held chip on his shoulder towards anyone more high-ranking. Unable to reveal this for obvious reasons, he took particular delight in lording it over Tullus, who had once outranked him by some margin. It was heartening, therefore, when he first took Tullus’ concern at face value, and then announced that other centurions had come to him with similar worries. ‘I’ve told them to come down hard on their men, as you did.’ Septimius mimed using a whip. ‘There are few things that ten or twenty lashes won’t sort out.’

Tullus felt his relief slipping away. ‘Wouldn’t it be an idea to go to the senior tribune, sir? Or even the legate?’

Septimius fixed him with a stony look. ‘
I
am the cohort commander, not you. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Tullus, swallowing his anger.

Septimius jerked his head. ‘Dismissed.’

Remembering with bitterness how Varus had refused to heed his warning, Tullus obeyed, but his concerns continued to niggle at him as he made his way back to his tent. Perhaps he should sidestep Septimius anyway? He was weighing up his options when he spied the legate Tubero some distance down the avenue. The mere sight of him, self-assured and posturing, rammed home the truth to Tullus. If his chances of convincing Septimius were slim, they were non-existent when it came to Tubero.

On Tullus’ current course, he and Tubero would meet within the next 150 paces. Tullus cursed. He didn’t have the cushion, the distraction of his soldiers, with him, and Tubero had only a few of his staff officers as company. They were riding along, casual as you like, while ordinary soldiers scurried out of their way. He would notice Tullus, in his typical centurion’s helmet, at once.

A barbed remark of some kind was inevitable. Tullus considered his options. If he ducked down between the tents to either side, Tubero wouldn’t even notice that he’d gone. The alternative route would add moments to his journey, no more. The humiliation of it made Tullus seethe, however. Must I spend the rest of my career tiptoeing around, avoiding contact with cocksuckers like Tubero? he wondered. The internal question wasn’t yet whole before Tullus had set his jaw and kept walking – towards Tubero.

Twenty steps before he had drawn level with the legate, a sudden impact from the side made Tullus stumble. He staggered to the side, and the broom-wielding legionary who had collided with him fell on to the flat of his back. ‘What are you doing, fool?’ barked Tullus.

‘Your pardon,’ said the soldier, picking himself up. His face paled as he realised Tullus’ rank. ‘A thousand apologies, sir! I didn’t see you.’

‘That’s clear,’ replied Tullus with a sardonic look. ‘Sweeping?’

Looking even more embarrassed, the legionary raised his broom. ‘I was walking sideways, brushing, sir, and—’

‘You didn’t see me, I know, I know.’ Tullus considered disciplining the soldier, a man who looked to have only a few years’ service under his belt. He seemed terrified, as well he might after colliding with a senior officer. It had been a genuine mistake, he decided, and there was no point in adding to the tension in the camp. ‘Don’t let it happen again.’

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.