Eagles at War

II

Senior Centurion Lucius Cominius Tullus stood on the side of the road, close to the main, arched gate of Vetera. A rectangular, fortified camp, some nine hundred paces by six hundred in size, it was home to his legion, the Eighteenth, and had been a Roman base for more than twenty years. His wasn’t an old unit by any means – it had been founded by Augustus half a century before, during the civil war that had brought him to power. The Eighteenth’s first period of service had been in Aquitania. Just a few years later, it had been transferred to Vetera on the River Rhenus. When Tullus had been promoted to the centurionate fifteen years ago, he had been transferred into the Eighteenth from his old legion.

Tramp, tramp. The soldiers of Tullus’ century marched past. Led by the standard-bearer, they were six men wide, twelve deep – a unit was never at complete strength – with his optio Fenestela near the back.

As each man passed Tullus, he took great care to square his shoulders and keep his shoulder-carried javelin at the right angle. Keen-eyed, expressionless, Tullus observed how good their equipment looked, and whether it showed any signs of wear, or damage. He’d spotted most of the problems when the legionaries had assembled outside their stone barracks: a loose armour plate here; a helmet cheekpiece missing its iron tie ring there. As then, none of it mattered enough to halt their progress. They’d been chastised, he thought, and would fix their kit upon their return. That, or they’d feel his vitis, vine cane, across their shoulders.

Now and again, Tullus’ attention strayed to the camp’s impressive fortifications. His home had been within for a decade and a half, and he wasn’t yet tired of appreciating the defences. Everything about them exuded confidence, permanence and the power of Rome. First came the deep double ditch, with the spiked branches at the bottom of each. Behind those was the earthen rampart, built with the spoil from the ditches. It was taller than the loftiest cavalryman. The stone wall that sat atop it was even taller, and ran around the camp’s entire perimeter.

Flashes of sunlight marked the sentries pacing to and fro on the rampart’s walkway. Those who were in the twin towers spanning the gate observed Tullus with a faint air of superiority, their height and his patrol duty giving them immunity to any potential reprimand. Tullus’ lips twitched with amusement. He’d acted much the same way as a young low-ranker, a lifetime before. As long as the sentries remained alert – and they appeared to be – he didn’t care.

Even in these peaceful times, outside a camp containing a legion, it paid to be watchful. That was how he approached life, how he approached routine duties such as this. No one had had a problem with tribesmen this side of the river in years, but every time his legionaries marched beyond the walls, on duty, they – and he – were armed and equipped for battle.

Tullus was a solid man; middle-aged, but in excellent physical shape. Under his centurion’s crested helmet and the felt liner that sat beneath it, he had short brown hair. A long jaw didn’t stop him from being good-looking; nor did the pattern of scars that marked his body. He jerked his head as his optio, Marcus Crassus Fenestela, drew level. They paced together to the front of the unit, their gaze roaming over the tramping legionaries.

As Tullus walked, he studied Fenestela sidelong. It amused him that he and Fenestela were such physical opposites. Where he was solid, Fenestela was thin; where he was brawny, Fenestela was wiry. Fenestela’s auburn, curly hair was longer than regulation cut, and his features were, as Tullus liked to joke, uneven. His ugliness wasn’t helped by his bushy red beard. Tullus didn’t give a shit about Fenestela’s appearance, however. He and his optio had served together for many years. They had saved each other’s lives on numerous occasions, and trusted each other inside and out.

‘Happy?’ Tullus asked at length.

‘Aye, sir,’ Fenestela replied, his keen eyes darting over the column. ‘They look all right.’

‘Even the green ones?’ asked Tullus as they drew alongside two ranks of newish recruits. He was amused: although the soldiers’ helmets and kit shone from polishing, and their gait was satisfactory, they were careful not to catch his eye.

‘They’re coming along,’ Fenestela murmured.

‘Look at Piso. He’s got mismatched feet, or I’m no judge.’ Tullus watched the tall soldier in the second rank of recruits. Despite the fact that he was furthest from Tullus, it was easy to spot his rolling step, the shield hanging at an awkward angle on his back.

‘He’s learning, sir,’ said Fenestela. ‘Another few months and he’ll pass muster.’

‘Aye.’ Content that Piso, who’d made it through the tough initial training, would go on to become a decent soldier, Tullus’ gaze strayed to the shining silver band that was the Rhenus. The river came from behind them to the right and ran parallel to the road at a distance of a couple of hundred paces. Half a mile onward, it flowed past the vicus, or civilian settlement, that served the massive military camp – their legion’s base – to their rear. The watercourse’s span was interrupted close to the vicus by large islands covered in trees, making it impossible to see the far bank, as they could from their current position. Germania Magna began on the other side, and it was where they were heading.

Discerning the direction of his gaze, Fenestela scowled. ‘I don’t like going over there, sir,’ he muttered.

‘You always say that, Fenestela. Any tribes still hostile to Rome live a hundred miles to the east, or more. The ones who live closer know better than to resist our rule. They’ve been taught enough lessons over the last twenty years.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Fenestela’s tone revealed his doubt.

Tullus didn’t comment. It was a topic that they had argued over countless times. According to Fenestela, he was overly trusting. Tullus thought his optio far too cynical. The longer Rome’s rule lay upon a land, the less likely it was that there would be trouble. There hadn’t been a major uprising close to the Rhenus for almost five years. If it continued, he mused, he could end his career in peacetime. That prospect appealed now more than it ever had – the price, perhaps, of seeing so many of his soldiers die in battle.

Despite the attraction of retirement, Tullus knew that he would sometimes miss the insanity of combat, when the blood pounded in his ears, and the men around him felt closer than brothers. He increased his pace, indicating that Fenestela should walk with him.

‘Are we taking the usual route today, sir?’ asked a soldier from the depths of the ranks.

‘We are. Over the bridge at the vicus to the other side. Out the east road, alongside the River Lupia for about ten miles, and back again.’ Tullus saw the sideways glances of the legionaries, and heard the low grumbling that followed. ‘I make it just over twenty miles. An easy march,’ he added, winking at Fenestela.

Fenestela returned the wink. ‘Without their full kit they’ll want to run it, sir.’

More muttering.

‘That’s an idea,’ said Tullus. ‘Maybe we’ll double-time it back to the camp.’

As he’d expected, someone took the bait. ‘There’s no need for that, sir, surely?’ called a voice from another rank, rendering the speaker invisible.

‘I don’t know,’ declared Tullus, with a glance at Fenestela.

The faceless soldier and several others groaned.

‘Don’t give me reason to insist on it,’ warned Tullus as Fenestela chuckled.

The complaints died away fast.

Tullus wasn’t going to force his men to return to the camp at that pace, but there was no harm in them thinking it might happen. The uncertainty kept them on their toes. The last ranks of the century marched past once more, and he conferred with the tesserarius, the most junior of his officers. No one was lagging. Content, he and Fenestela trotted back up the patrol, resuming their positions in turn.

The straggling development of houses, businesses and stables that formed the outskirts of the vicus drew near. They harked back to the settlement’s humble beginnings. Nowadays, most wanted to forget those rough times. The council talked of little but knocking the shacks and brothels to the ground, of grand new building projects and of a wall around the settlement’s perimeter. Part of Tullus would be sorry when these inevitable changes came, because any sense that this was the frontier would depart with them. This part of Germania would be no different to anywhere in Italy, or Hispania, and the idea that one day citified dandies might look down their noses at him from the tables of a pricey inn stuck in his throat like a fish bone.

If the damn bridge over the Rhenus had been built in a direct line east of the camp rather than just outside the settlement, thought Tullus, such a thing could never happen. Yet the camp’s position on high ground, back from the vicus, made tactical sense. As a result, soldiers had no option but to pass through it each time they had to venture over the river. And that, despite an officer’s best intentions, meant an inevitable slowing in their pace. The instant that legionaries were spotted, every shop and restaurant owner, every trickster and wild-eyed soothsayer, every whore and vendor of trinkets, thronged to the side of the road, where they harangued the passing business. He could see them gathering already, could hear a red-cheeked woman bellowing about her delicious, fresh-cooked sausages.

Senior centurion and cohort commander Tullus might be, but he didn’t have any legal jurisdiction over civilians. Nevertheless, he readied his vitis. In practice, he could do as he wished. If someone got too enthusiastic, he wouldn’t hesitate to administer a sharp clout.

In they tramped, hobnails clashing on the paving stones, past the miserable shacks in which the poorest of the poor lived. Snot-nosed children in rags watched the armoured legionaries with wide eyes. ‘Spare an as?’ shouted the most confident one to no one in particular. The call was like the first drop from a raincloud. The urchins darted forward, yelling, running alongside the soldiers with outstretched hands. ‘Got any bread, sir?’ ‘A coin, sir, a coin!’ ‘Want to screw my sister, sir? She’s beautiful!’

Few men were interested in this first wave. Used to Tullus’ close monitoring, they kept moving, giving as good as they got. ‘I haven’t got two asses to rub together,’ Tullus heard Piso say. ‘I wouldn’t waste my money on little tykes like you,’ declared another soldier. ‘Your sister?’ retorted a third. ‘If she’s got your looks, she’s got webbing between her fingers and toes!’

Hurling insults, but quietly – they knew well the pain a kick from a studded sandal could deliver – the urchins withdrew.

As the next flood of hopefuls descended, Tullus sighed, and readied his vitis once more.

‘Fresh bread, hot from the oven! Who’d like some?’ ‘A cup of wine for any of you brave men? I sell only the best vintages!’ ‘Look at you strong, handsome boys! One of you must have time for a little knee-trembler! Three sestertii, and I’ll even let you kiss me!’ The whore who’d made that offer wasn’t as raddled as most in the settlement, and Tullus sensed the step of the legionaries nearest her waver. Wheeling out of rank, he was on her in half a dozen strides.

‘They have other business right now. Clear off.’

She leered and pulled down the neck of her grimy robe, exposing her still pert breasts. ‘A fine centurion like you must have the money to buy a feel of these – and more!’

‘Go on, piss off!’ Tullus’ eyes appraised her chest even as he raised his vitis.

With a knowing pout, she retreated to the door of her hut, where she continued to entreat his men to come inside.

Tullus let her be. Fenestela, who was in the tenth rank, and the tesserarius, at the back, would ensure that no one dared to break formation. If it hadn’t been for his other officers, however, he wouldn’t have put it past one of his men to try and have a ‘quickie’. It had been done by soldiers in other units before, without the centurion noticing, or so the gossip around the fires went in the evenings.

In the event, he didn’t have to use his stick. The swarm of locals eased as they entered the vicus proper, where homes and businesses of a better class were situated. This was where many of the camp’s legionaries, and not a few of the officers, had common-law wives. Invitations to come and eat, to drink wine, to buy weapons or trinkets for their girls, continued to rain down, but their path wasn’t impeded. Laughter broke out among his soldiers when a pair of hefty tribeswomen with braided hair, sisters perhaps, spotted their common-law husbands in the century’s midst and rained a barrage of abuse on both, complaining that neither man had given them as much as a denarius for the previous month. The miserable bastards needn’t come back over the Rhenus, the women squawked, or set foot in their houses, until they gave them some money. The soldiers’ muttered excuses that they hadn’t yet been paid brought down further abuse. Hoots and jeers from their comrades added to the clamour.

‘Keep moving!’ roared Tullus, quelling his men’s noise, if not that of their wives. He marched on, grateful to be free of such nagging. At times, he missed having a woman, but running his own soldiers as well as a cohort of six centuries more than filled his time. When the need came upon him, which was less often than it used to, he visited the best whorehouse in the settlement. Upon his retirement, there would be time to find a young bride, to raise a family. Until then, he was wedded to the army.

The buildings close to the vicus’ forum were proud affairs, the homes of merchants who’d grown rich on the trade that flowed to and fro across the Rhenus. Studying a grandiose house, Tullus considered whether he’d have been happier selling wine, pottery and silver platters over the river in return for cattle, slaves and women’s hair – the goods that Rome desired from Germania. He’d have made a fortune – could have owned a large property with central heating, private toilet facilities and a courtyard. Then, from the pavement, a veteran in a faded military tunic gave him a proud salute – with the stump of his right arm. Tullus returned the gesture, ashamed that he might consider anything other than being a soldier. The comradeship granted by a life in the legion was beyond price. Money came second to that – and it always would. Besides, his centurion’s pension would be plenty to live on, and a sight more than the poor bastard with one hand received. He fumbled with the purse at his belt and tossed the man a denarius. Loud blessings followed him down the street.

Jupiter, Greatest and Best, grant that I see my final days out whole in mind and body, Tullus prayed. If that is not to happen, I wish for a swift death. In reflex, he rubbed the phallus amulet that hung from his neck. Why this dark mood? he asked himself as they took the street that ran towards the river. There’s no call for it on this fine day.

‘Off on patrol, sir?’ called the lead sentry, one of eight legionaries outside a small building by the side of the crossing. The position was manned day and night.

‘Yes. Lucius Cominius Tullus, senior centurion, Second Cohort of the Eighteenth.’

‘Today’s password, sir, if you please.’

‘Roma Victrix.’

With a salute, the soldier stood aside.

Tullus led the way on to the stone arched bridge, which was wide enough for two carts or eight legionaries to pass abreast, and which spanned a section of the river that was a hundred and fifty paces wide. Beyond it, in midstream, was a narrow island, dotted with thickets of crab-apple trees. A party of off-duty soldiers joked with one another as they fished from the bank nearest the vicus. Further off, a crane perched by the water’s edge. A paved road led straight across the islet to another island, via another, bigger bridge. Beyond that, a third bridge took the road to the eastern bank. The last one had been a bitch to construct, Tullus remembered. The river there was deep and fast-flowing. A number of men had drowned before the massive wooden piles that formed the foundations had been manoeuvred into place. Halfway across, a plaque commemorated the unit that had built it, and venerated Augustus with the words Pontem perpetui mansurum in saecula – ‘I have built a bridge that will last forever’. You didn’t build it, thought Tullus with a trace of anger. We did, with our sweat and blood. The names of the dead legionaries ought to have been inscribed on the stonework, but that was not Rome’s way, or the army’s, worse luck.

A second sentry post stood some five hundred paces away, over the widest section of the river. Being on the German side, it was a good deal larger than its fellow on the near bank, and held half a century of legionaries. As Tullus drew near to the bridge’s end, an ox-drawn cart hove into view. The pair of beasts pulling it seemed most unhappy, bellowing and refusing to walk in a straight line. His view was obstructed as a trader leading two wagons full of dead-eyed slaves passed by. By the time he could see again, the cart driver – a soldier by his appearance – had been forced to take his vehicle off the road. Some of the men from the sentry post had gathered to watch. Their rude comments reached Tullus’ ears. ‘Call yourself a legionary?’ ‘You can’t even control two damn bullocks!’

‘Piss off!’ retorted the man. ‘It’s not me that has them agitated, it’s the smell of the damn bear.’

Tullus could feel his legionaries’ gaze moving, as his was, to the rough-hewn cage that was tethered to the cart. The soldier and his companions were ursarii, whose job was to trap bears that could be used in the wooden amphitheatre which stood outside the camp. Beast hunts were an ever-popular form of entertainment for the garrison. To ensure a regular supply of animals, it had long been the practice to delegate soldiers to catch bears, wolves and deer in the forests east of the river. In Tullus’ mind, hunting was far more enjoyable, but the displays were an easy way to keep the troops happy, and that mattered.

‘Come on, Jupiter, the bear can’t touch you. Easy, Mars!’ said the ursarius, rubbing the bullocks’ heads in turn. ‘Nearly there. Just three bridges, and the vicus, and you’ll be back in your pen.’

Tullus forgot the ursarius’ woes as he greeted the officer in charge of the outpost. Their conversation had only just begun, however, before it was interrupted by the bawling of oxen.

‘Excuse me,’ said Tullus. He took a couple of steps towards the cart. ‘Soldier!’

Despite the clamour of his beasts, the sweating ursarius heard him. He threw off a quick salute. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Name?’

‘Cessorinius Ammausias, sir. Ursarius to the Eighteenth.’

‘Why in Hades’ name are your oxen so panicked?’

‘These are a new pair of oxen, sir. It’s their first time with a bear in the cage. They’ll be all right after a little rest, after I’ve talked to them.’

Several comments were hurled about Ammausias’ relationship with his cattle, and he bunched his fists.

It wasn’t the ursarius’ fault, thought Tullus. ‘Enough,’ he cried, raising his vitis.

The jibes died away.

Ammausias threw him a grateful look. ‘The bear will put on a good spectacle, sir. The brute is half again as big as any I’ve seen.’

‘In that case, it should impress,’ said Tullus, wondering how dangerous it would have been to hunt the bear.

A clatter of hooves on the road announced the arrival of a troop of German horsemen perhaps sixty strong. Cloaked, bearded, armed with shields and spears, they trotted towards the bridge in a disorganised mob. The behaviour wasn’t uncommon, and Tullus rolled his eyes at the guard officer. ‘They can wait until I get my men off the bridge. It’s our road, not theirs.’

‘I’ll stop them, sir,’ said the officer, stepping forward.

Before he could say a word, events took on a life of their own. This time, it wasn’t the oxen that grew alarmed, but the bear. As some of the tribesmen rode up to the side of the cage for a better look, it launched itself at the bars, snapping and growling. Jupiter and Mars took instant fright. The lead rope was ripped from a startled Ammausias’ hands and he was thrown to one side as the oxen barged down the gravelled embankment by the roadside. Their angle of descent forced the cart to take a different path to theirs, which unbalanced it at once. Within a few heartbeats, it had overturned. Wood splintered, oxen bellowed and Ammausias cursed in vain.

For all that he was in full armour, with almost eighty legionaries at his back, Tullus’ heart skipped a beat as the bear burst free from the wreckage of the cage. Ammausias had not been exaggerating. It was a magnificent beast, with dense brown-yellowish fur and a large, rounded head with small ears. Yet for all its size, the bear wanted nothing more than to escape. Ignoring the oxen, and the crowd of watching soldiers, it lumbered down the slope towards the nearest stand of trees.

‘Damn tribesmen,’ Ammausias cried.

Fresh laughter broke out among those on the bridge, and Tullus smiled despite himself.

‘Fetch the nets and ropes,’ Ammausias called to his companions. ‘We might still have a chance of catching it.’

Rather you than me, thought Tullus. Chasing down a large, angry bear, and then trying to restrain it, was a fearsome prospect. Even if the hunters succeeded, there was the tricky matter of transporting the beast to the camp. The cage was smashed beyond repair.

He hadn’t expected the German horsemen to do anything other than look on in amusement. Urged on by their leader, however, a broad-shouldered man with a black mane of hair, they broke up and rode after the bear.

‘This is more entertainment than I get in days of sentry duty, sir,’ said the guard officer, chuckling.

‘It’s more than I get too,’ replied Tullus. ‘But it doesn’t seem right that we’re standing by while the Germans help to catch the creature.’

‘They’re the ones that scared the bear, sir.’

‘All the same, it reflects badly on us if we do nothing.’ Tullus turned his head. ‘Fenestela! Get up here.’

Leaving his optio in charge of the patrol, Tullus led fifteen men off the road, following the direction taken by the bear. To his surprise, the Germans had already cornered the beast by the time they had caught up. The riders had driven it out of the shelter of a group of birch trees, and surrounded it in a loose circle of horses and inward-pointing spears. Every time it tried to flee, it was driven back by fierce charges from the warriors. Growling with rage, the bear roamed to and fro, probing their defences to no avail. Ammausias was conferring with the Germans’ leader; his companions stood by, nets in hand.

Tullus stalked up, unnoticed.

‘Can you catch it?’ demanded the German in accented Latin.

‘We’ve done it once, so we can do it again,’ asserted Ammausias. ‘It’s roping the brute tight enough to carry it as far as the amphitheatre that will prove dangerous.’

‘I can always order my men to back off,’ said the German with a smile.

‘No!’

‘I jest with you.’

Ammausias let out a rueful chuckle.

Tullus cleared his throat. ‘Can I be of help?’

Looking pleased, Ammausias glanced from Tullus to the German, who smiled, and back again. ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir. Your men could strengthen the circle, using their shields to fill the gaps between the horsemen.’

‘Very good. You’ll do the rest?’

‘We’ll net him as soon as your soldiers are in place, sir,’ replied Ammausias, watching the bear. ‘Best move fast, though. Soon he’ll charge his way out, or get speared as he tries to do so.’

Tullus issued orders to his soldiers. ‘Do your best not to get injured, brothers,’ he urged, eliciting nervous laughs. Unslinging his own shield and stepping into the ring of men and horses, Tullus threw back his shoulders. They were here now. They would get it done.

To his relief, the bear was soon trapped. The moment that everyone had taken up his position, Ammausias and his comrades went into action. As one man distracted the bear by taunting it with a spear, the others crept in on it from behind. An angry charge at its tormentor was brought short by a well-flung rope that landed around its neck. That was drawn taut. A large weighted net followed, covering the bear from head to foot. It snapped, and ripped at the netting with its front paws, but soon entangled itself. Several men darted in, more cords in their hands. Tullus watched in amazement as they seized first one back paw and then the other, slipping loops of rope over the bear’s limbs and securing them with running knots. One soldier got clawed on the arm, but his was the only wound suffered as the bear was trussed up like a giant hen for the pot.

Ammausias regarded Tullus and the German chieftain with satisfaction.

‘You know how to restrain a beast,’ said Tullus with respect.

‘Aye, sir, I have to. My thanks to you both for your help. Once we’ve chopped down a few large branches for carrying poles, we can hump him back to the road. I’ll commandeer a wagon to carry him back to the camp.’

The warrior’s gaze fell on the bear. ‘My people hunt these beasts, but in the wild. I do not understand why you would trap a creature only to kill it before thousands of people.’

Ammausias looked scornful, but was prudent enough to say nothing. With a salute, he left them to it.

‘It is the Roman way,’ Tullus explained. ‘I too prefer to hunt, but the majority like to watch such spectacles from the safety of amphitheatre seats. There must be men of your kind who would do the same.’

The German laughed. ‘You speak the truth. I may surround myself with warriors, but not everyone in my tribe is a fighter.’

Close up, the German was an impressive specimen. Muscles rippled under his wool shirt, and his thighs were as thick as small tree trunks. The fine silver brooch pinning his cloak at the shoulder and the yellow tassels on the garment’s border revealed his high-born status. ‘What tribe are you?’ asked Tullus.

‘Cherusci,’ came the proud answer. Then, a wink. ‘From the part of the tribe that’s friendly towards Rome.’

‘Ha!’ said Tullus. Certain branches of the Cherusci had been indomitable enemies of the empire just a few years before. ‘You’re not one of Arminius’ men, by any chance?’ A centurion friend of Tullus had a high opinion of the Cheruscan officer, in the main because of his valour in the three-year Pannonian war, which was still dragging on.

There was a loud chuckle, and Tullus realised. ‘You are Arminius.’

‘One and the same.’ He leaned down, extending a hand.

‘Lucius Cominius Tullus. Tullus.’

Arminius jerked a thumb at Tullus’ helmet. ‘Senior centurion?’

‘Aye. You’re an auxiliary prefect, I understand. I should call you “sir”, by rights.’

Arminius chuckled again. ‘There’s no need for that. We’re not on parade, are we?’

Tullus found himself warming to Arminius’ informal and genial manner. ‘Where are you stationed?’

‘I command the ala that’s attached to the Seventeenth, at Ara Ubiorum.’

The great base at Ara Ubiorum, home to two legions, was more than fifty miles away. It was also on the west bank of the Rhenus, but Tullus was used to German tribesmen taking the longer route north, via the opposite side. ‘Been on leave?’

‘We have been, me and my boys. The camp commander let us go ten days ago. Told us to meet up with the Seventeenth again here, before the summer march into Germania.’

Tullus nodded. That made sense.

‘Varus wants to talk to me.’

Publius Quinctilius Varus was the governor of Germania, and the commander of five legions. He’d been in the Eighteenth’s camp for some time, preparing for the campaign ahead. Tullus knew him by sight, and had heard him speak on a number of occasions, but he had never been introduced to the man. ‘You know Varus?’

Arminius shrugged. ‘We get on well, aye.’

Tullus felt a flicker of irritation that a German chieftain should be a friend of his supreme commander, when he, a veteran Roman officer of more than twenty-five years’ service, was not. It wasn’t altogether surprising, though. Arminius’ cavalry detachment was similar in size to a cohort. He was a high-ranking noble of his tribe, a Roman citizen and, as everyone knew, an honorary equestrian. The last detail rankled a little. Just a little. ‘Well, when Varus has finished with you, come to my barracks. We can share a jug of wine.’

‘I will take you up on that offer,’ said Arminius, grinning. ‘Until then.’ So that was Arminius, thought Tullus, watching the Cheruscan ride away. He tries hard, but he seems like a good sort.