Hunting the Eagles

Chapter VIII

Fortune had favoured Piso and Vitellius, thought Tullus when they reported to him that evening. Fortune, and the bloodlust that had swept over Gaius and the rest. No one had pursued them into the tent lines. After a hundred paces, and three sharp turns – left, right, right – which had taken them out of the line of sight of the avenue, Piso explained how he’d thought to slow to a walk. Everyone looks at the man who is running, he told Tullus, but the man who walks draws no more than passing attention. So it had proved. Emboldened by their success – and intimidated by the reception Tullus would have given them if they returned early – the pair had continued with their mission. Because Gaius’ friend Marcus had acquaintances in the Twentieth Legion, they had visited the First’s tent lines.

All had gone well there, and the pair had spent the morning watching a set of wrestling matches organised by the bored legionaries. A large crowd had gathered to watch the contests, and food- and wine-sellers had come in from outside the camp. It had been perfect ground for wandering about and eavesdropping on conversations.

For the most part, Tullus brooded, what they’d heard was bad. It seemed that Gaius’ information had been accurate. Almost every soldier in the four legions – the First, the Fifth, the Twentieth and the Twenty-First – had rebelled. Perhaps fifty legionaries appeared to be in charge; their number included Bony Face, Fat Nose and the twins. More than a score of centurions had been murdered. More senior officers were being held captive in their tents, with the obvious exception of the tribune who had been slain.

There was talk of violence beyond the camp’s walls. Some civilians had been killed, and women raped. There were even rumours of attacking the nearest town, Ara Ubiorum. About the only cheering news was the fact that, as far as Piso and Vitellius could tell, none of Caecina’s messengers had been apprehended.

That meant, thought Tullus, that Germanicus would know by now what had happened. He would arrive soon. What would happen then was anyone’s guess – the mutineers weren’t going to lie down and present their throats like submissive dogs. Too much blood had been shed for that.

How many more lives would be lost?

Tullus continued to send out his men each day, with Caecina’s blessing. On the fifth day, Piso returned earlier than normal, bearing the news that Germanicus had been seen nearing the camp. A delighted Tullus took him straight to Caecina, who was incarcerated in his office with the primi pili, the most senior centurions of the four legions.

Caecina’s delight at Piso’s news didn’t last. ‘Imagine if the mutineers fall upon him,’ he declared. ‘The governor must not enter the camp until it is safe! Word must be sent to him at once.’

‘I’ll go, sir,’ offered Tullus. ‘I can pass myself off as a veteran.’

Caecina studied Tullus for a moment. ‘The mutineers have a point about men serving for too long, eh?’ His frankness made the primi pili give each other surprised looks, but Tullus nodded.

It wasn’t unusual for a centurion to be almost fifty years old, but ordinary legionaries, who joined the army at eighteen or nineteen, were eligible for discharge at forty-three or -four. Poor record-keeping and insufficient numbers of recruits meant that this deadline was often ‘overlooked’ by the more unscrupulous centurions. No wonder men had grievances, thought Tullus, and shame on Caecina for not doing something about it before. ‘With your permission, sir, I will take my optio and twenty men.’

‘Do as you see fit. Just make sure that you reach the governor outside the camp. He will have an escort, but because he’ll be riding like a demon, it’s bound to be small. Things could easily go wrong, and I don’t want to be held accountable for the death of the emperor’s heir as well as the cursed mutiny.’

Tullus winced inwardly. If Germanicus was slain, and he was also blamed, the death penalty would beckon. His dead soldiers would never be avenged, and he would lose any chance of recovering the Eighteenth’s eagle. He threw back his shoulders. ‘I’ll see the governor into your presence, sir. I swear it, on my life.’

Wandering the camp out of uniform, pretending that he was an ordinary legionary, was a bizarre experience for Tullus. His secret visit to Rome with Fenestela had been one of the only times that he had acted in such a way. That had taken some getting used to, but it had not been as risk-laden. Here, among so many soldiers, Tullus expected to be recognised as an officer at every turn. To this end, he had pulled the hood of his cloak up, and walked along with his head down, letting Piso and the others guide his path. They all wore swords under their cloaks, but none were in armour. So few of the mutinous soldiers were in full kit that to do so would have drawn immediate attention to themselves.

Tullus was able to gain an impression of the situation as they made their way towards the camp’s northernmost gate, the entrance at which Germanicus would arrive. At first glance, things appeared normal enough. The legionaries’ tents were still in position. So too were some of the unit standards. Yet there were gaps in the tent lines that shouldn’t have been present; Tullus saw that most of the centurions’ large tents had been torn down. A closer look revealed that they had been slashed to pieces, or burned. Near more than one tent, tell-tale bloodstains bore witness to darker deeds. Rubbish lay underfoot everywhere – discarded amphorae of wine, broken plates, rinds of cheese, and a sandal with a broken strap. There were items that had to have been pilfered from officers’ quarters and then discarded: an iron-bound chest lying on its side, a half-unrolled fine carpet, a massive cast-iron stand with hooks for two dozen oil lamps. The stink of urine, and worse, was proof that reaching the latrines had not been a priority for many.

If the camp looked vaguely normal from a distance, its inhabitants did not. The mutinous legionaries lounged about before their tents, or roamed the avenues in large, unruly groups. A significant number were drunk. Crowds of them were heading in the same direction as Tullus and his men, and from their conversations, it seemed that they too wanted to see Germanicus, and lay before him their demands.

No one gave Tullus’ party a second glance, and they soon reached the northern gate, where a queue had formed to exit the camp. Word was spreading that everyone was to assemble on the parade ground as soon as possible, so that Germanicus would appreciate their overwhelming numbers. Tullus had Piso scale the ladder that led up to one of the entrance’s watch-towers. He was back within the space of thirty heartbeats. ‘A party of riders is approaching, sir. They’re perhaps a mile away.’

‘That’s got to be Germanicus,’ said Tullus, his heart beating faster. Instinct told him that the governor might tackle the problem head on, and Tullus wondered if he could reach him before the parade ground. Whether Germanicus, renowned for his determination, would heed Tullus’ advice was another thing altogether. Furthermore, to do so would reveal themselves to the mutineers.

‘We’ll head to the speaking platform,’ he said to Piso and the rest. ‘Fast as we can. Avoid meeting anyone’s eye.’

Men with purpose always moved quicker than those without, and the effect was exaggerated when wine had been consumed. Tullus’ party slipped between and around the rowdy mutineers, breaking into smaller groups when needed, coming at last to the low platform from which officers addressed troops on parade. The only people to protest their passage were a number of aggressive, pissed soldiers, who were easy to bypass. Tullus kept his men away from the front, because Bony Face was close to the dais with Fat Nose and the twins. The legionaries around them were sober, and seemed to be spoiling for trouble.

Time dragged as they waited for Germanicus to arrive. Tullus kept his head down, and spoke little, but he kept his ears pricked. It was heartening to hear that the mutineers’ strong feelings about their grievances were mitigated by a clear devotion to Germanicus, and notable that, despite their mutiny, the ringleaders hadn’t positioned themselves on the platform.

‘He’ll give us what we want,’ opined a beefy-jawed legionary to Tullus’ right.

‘Aye,’ said his companion, whose face was as narrow as the other’s was wide. ‘Germanicus is a fair man and a fine general – everyone knows that.’

‘He will offer us what is ours,’ snarled Fat Nose, who had heard the comment. ‘Else he’ll get what’s coming to him.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ said Beefy Chops, but a sizeable number of legionaries seemed to agree with Fat Nose.

Tullus gave Fenestela, who was a few paces to his left, a meaningful glance. This could be bad, he mouthed. I’m ready, Fenestela mouthed back. So are the men. Tullus inclined his head, and dropped a discreet hand to his sword, making sure the hilt was sitting just so. There wasn’t much else to do but pray. Tullus wasn’t one for asking favours of the gods, but at dangerous times like this it helped him to feel a little better. Fortuna, he asked, great goddess, keep these soldiers calm and my men safe. Let Germanicus say his piece and go in peace.

‘He’s coming!’ shouted a voice from the direction of the road north.

A ripple of excitement passed over the gathering. Men twisted and stretched to get a view of the newcomer, Tullus among them. The first indication of Germanicus’ arrival was a thinning of the crowd. It was noteworthy that they didn’t form up in even ranks, or offer an honour guard.

Imposing, tall, Germanicus strode into sight. He was bareheaded and stern-faced; his armour gleamed like sunlight. A collective Ahhhhh went up. Three companions followed in his wake, two cavalrymen and a staff officer. He’s got balls of steel to come here, and with such a small escort, thought Tullus, his admiration for the man growing. What was far from clear was whether Germanicus’ move had been wise. The situation oozed with danger. Tullus hoped that the governor’s famed courage and oratory skills would be enough to keep him alive. If things went wrong, Tullus’ men would not be enough.

‘Where are your standards, soldiers of Rome?’ cried Germanicus, his height setting him a handspan and more over every man present. He clambered on to the platform, which made him as tall as a giant. His companions stayed at the base. ‘I want to see them, so I may recognise your units as I speak with you,’ said Germanicus.

‘We can hear you well enough without standards,’ retorted Bony Face, his voice throbbing with anger.

Germanicus made no acknowledgement. ‘Raise your standards,’ he shouted. ‘You are proud of your units, are you not?’

‘We are!’ answered a score or more of voices.

‘Ignore him,’ ordered Bony Face.

‘If you are proud, show me your standards!’ urged Germanicus.

Bony Face and his fellows glared as first one, then two, then a dozen century and cohort standards were lifted up from men’s sides. Before long, they were everywhere, and Germanicus nodded in satisfaction. ‘It is good knowing to whom one speaks,’ he said, pitching his voice to carry. ‘You all know me. I am Germanicus, imperial governor of the province of Germania and Tres Galliae, and heir to the emperor, Tiberius, praise his name! I am also your commander.’

The rumblings of discontent and comments about Germanicus’ pedigree that followed were muted, pleasing Tullus and angering Bony Face and his cronies in equal measure.

‘I stand before you this day to speak of many things,’ said Germanicus. ‘First among those must be Augustus, our blessed father who is no more.’ He smiled a little as a few shouts acclaiming the dead emperor went up. ‘From humble origins, he forged an empire that is the envy of all. For the last half-century, his legions – you brave soldiers – have won countless victories and conquered vast territories in his name. Of recent years, you have followed his heir Tiberius to glory in Germania and in Illyricum. Your courage, your sacrifices, your blood achieved these glories! This province – no, the empire – is at peace today because of you.’

Heads shook in agreement, men muttered ‘Aye’, but there was none of the usual cheering that would meet such lavish praise.

‘I rode here in haste when the news of this disturbance reached me,’ said Germanicus, pacing about on the platform. ‘Rome relies on you. You are the force that guards its northern borders. What has happened to your discipline, your obedience? Where are your officers?’

Tullus was prepared for the total uproar that descended, but Germanicus was not. He seemed shocked by the host of legionaries who stripped off their tunics to reveal their scars, and the marks left by punishment whippings. Encouraged by Bony Face, Fat Nose and the twins, they pressed forward, raining down a litany of complaints: ‘Our centurion beat us black and blue every day!’ ‘Look here! This was made by a red-hot poker. That was the penalty for not digging a latrine trench deep enough.’

‘My centurion took bribes to let men off sentry duty and the like. If we couldn’t pay, he’d have us whipped!’

‘These are grievous accusations, and they will be investigated,’ said Germanicus, regaining his composure. ‘I cannot believe, however, that every centurion was guilty of such crimes.’

‘That’s why we only slew the worst of them,’ cried Bony Face, and many of legionaries cheered.

A deluge of grievances followed, about the backbreaking jobs that the legionaries were supposed to do – ditch-digging, transporting fodder and timber, cutting down trees, the construction of latrines and ovens. These had to be done, complained the soldiers, even when there was no real need. The centurions used the hard labour just to stop their men being ‘idle’, and if they didn’t obey, the most fearful punishments were administered. ‘All this,’ roared Bony Face, ‘and we receive a pittance for it! That’s if we are even paid. Over the last few years, our money’s come late, sometimes by months. And that’s not mentioning the men who should have received their discharge.’

‘Look here, at this soldier, Germanicus,’ shouted the first twin. ‘He hasn’t got a tooth left in his head. Thirty-five years he’s been a legionary, and he is not alone.’

‘Are he and his fellows to die in their armour?’ chimed in the second twin.

Fresh cheering erupted, and the toothless soldier beamed at his moment of notoriety.

‘These issues must also be addressed,’ Germanicus declared in an even tone. ‘I give you my word that every one of them will be recorded, and looked into. What say you to that?’

Some in the crowd appeared pleased, but more did not. ‘Promises mean little,’ Tullus heard Bony Face say. ‘We want our objections answered now.’

‘Seize the purple, Germanicus,’ yelled the first twin. ‘Take it from that fat fool Tiberius!’

‘Tiberius is an old man, with cabbage for brains. It is you who should be emperor, Germanicus. March on Rome – we’ll help you!’ cried the second twin.

Tullus stared at Germanicus, who seemed disgusted, but that didn’t stop the legionaries’ acclaim. ‘GER-MAN-I-CUS!’ they yelled, over and over.

Germanicus jumped down from the platform, but some of the mutinous soldiers moved to block his passage. Germanicus’ guards reached for their swords, but he barked an order for them to stay their hands. The air prickled with tension.

‘Gather the men,’ Tullus ordered Fenestela. ‘Follow me.’ He shoved forward through the throng, using his elbows and shoulders. The confusion was such – legionaries were shouting for Germanicus, against him, that they should raid the nearest town, or march on Rome – that within twenty heartbeats Tullus could almost touch Germanicus. There he halted, however. Two mutineers stood in Germanicus’ path, drawn swords in their hands. If Tullus made a wrong move, the emperor’s heir might be slain. Germanicus’ escort of three were at his back, powerless thanks to the press on either side.

‘You’re going back on that platform, sir,’ growled one of the mutineers. ‘Accept the honour that’s being shown you.’

‘I will do no such thing! I would rather take my own life than be disloyal to the emperor.’ With a grand gesture, Germanicus drew his own blade.

This isn’t the place to be theatrical, thought Tullus, even as a pair of soldiers grabbed Germanicus’ right arm and held it tight.

‘Calusidius is my name, sir,’ said another man, shoving his face into Germanicus’. ‘I think you’ll find this a little sharper than your toy.’ To loud applause, he proffered a standard issue gladius, its wooden handle shiny with use, and its steel blade well oiled. ‘You’re welcome to use it.’

‘I will choose the time of my death, legionary. Not you,’ snarled Germanicus.

Cowed by Germanicus’ contempt, Calusidius lowed his weapon.

Bony Face was harder to dominate. ‘Don’t be fickle, governor. If you’re so loyal, kill yourself,’ he jibed. ‘Go on!’

‘Do it!’ roared a hundred voices.

‘You’ll be no loss,’ added Fat Nose. ‘The more patricians who go into the mud, the better.’

Tullus was watching the men around him like a hanging hawk focuses on a mouse far below. He had noted their expressions changing throughout the unfolding drama, from impatient to awed, uncertain to angry to fearful and back again. Now he saw bloodlust creeping in. It would take but a word from Bony Face or his cronies to have the mob descend on Germanicus in a flurry of fists and blades.

He was moving at once. ‘Fenestela! After me!’

Two, three, six steps and he was in beside the soldiers who were holding Germanicus. Despite the press, Tullus was able to draw his sword underarm. Pushing its tip against the nearest man’s lower back, he hissed, ‘Release the governor. Don’t protest, or I’ll split your right kidney in two.’

‘You heard him,’ said Fenestela, using his blade to encourage the other soldier.

The shocked legionaries did as they were told. As those in the immediate vicinity struggled to realise what had happened, Tullus was speaking in Germanicus’ ear, motioning to his escort, and retreating away from Bony Face, Fat Nose and the twins. Pre-warned by Fenestela, Tullus’ twenty men formed a narrow, V-shaped wedge in front of Tullus and his valuable companion. Germanicus’ escort of three were quick to take their places in the formation. The party was twenty paces away before Bony Face and the rest began to hurl abuse after them, and fifty before the lead mutineers were calling for Germanicus to be apprehended.

At this point, Tullus slipped his hooded cloak over a protesting Germanicus, and pulled the cowl low over the governor’s face. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to bear with me,’ he muttered. ‘MOVE!’ he barked at his soldiers.

They were two hundred paces from the platform, and the gathering was thinning, before Bony Face had organised enough men to pursue them. Loud cries trailed over the crowd’s heads. ‘Catch him!’

‘With Germanicus as a prisoner, our demands will be met!’

The legionaries further away weren’t listening, were too pissed, or had no interest in apprehending Germanicus. There were curious stares aplenty, but few even remarked at the group’s passage. Nonetheless, Tullus did not let Germanicus lower his hood until they had reached the principia.

‘By all the gods,’ said Germanicus, recognising Tullus. ‘It’s you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Tullus, concerned at once that there be no mention of their meeting in Rome. Despite Germanicus’ leniency, the fewer people who knew about it, the better. ‘I’m sorry for manhandling you back there.’

‘No apology is necessary, centurion.’ Germanicus dipped his chin. ‘It was fortunate indeed that I acted as I did when last we met.’ Tullus breathed a sigh of relief at the way their encounter had been mentioned, and Germanicus continued, ‘I appear to owe you and your men my life, perhaps. If not that, my freedom.’

‘I was just doing my job, sir.’

‘You risked much, and when things seemed as if they might get out of hand, you acted with real initiative. Take the praise, centurion.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tullus.

‘It’s good to know that I have men like you behind me. Things are likely to get worse here before they get better.’

‘Blood will flow, sir?’ It was dispiriting to hear his worries given voice by another.

‘I’m sure of it, centurion. Even when the mutineers have been brought to heel, some of their leaders will have to die. The best way to remove canker is with the first cut of the knife, my father used to say.’ Germanicus’ eyes now looked like two chips of flint. ‘If you don’t do that, the rot soon spreads.’

‘As you say, sir,’ agreed Tullus. Inside, he was horrified by the idea of killing his fellow soldiers.

What choice had he, though, other than to obey?