Hunting the Eagles

Chapter IX

While Germanicus closeted himself in the largest tent with Caecina and the senior centurions, news reached Tullus of Tubero’s arrival while he had been outside the camp. It threw him into a foul humour. Tubero had escaped through the back of his tent, it seemed. Disguised as an ordinary legionary, he had made his way unhindered to the headquarters. ‘Somehow the maggot always comes up as a winner,’ Tullus grumbled to Fenestela.

‘You never spoke a truer word,’ observed Fenestela, spitting.

‘One law for them, and one for us, eh?’

Fenestela grinned. They both spoke the same lines every time. ‘As it has always been, and always will be.’

‘I heard it was bad out there,’ said a voice.

Tullus found Senior Centurion Cordus standing ten paces away, his podgy face pale and strained. I don’t need this now, Tullus thought, remembering their angry exchange in the Net and Trident. ‘Bad enough.’

‘They’re saying that you rescued the governor.’

‘Aye.’ Tullus rolled his eyes at Fenestela, and waited for the sarcastic response.

‘You went into the midst of thousands of unhappy legionaries, men who have murdered centurions, and somehow extricated Germanicus,’ said Cordus. ‘That was well done.’

Tullus gave Cordus a startled glance. What in hell’s name was he playing at?

‘It would have been a terrible thing if the governor had been killed,’ Cordus went on. ‘We are all in your debt.’

‘Anyone would have done the same,’ demurred Tullus.

‘Except they wouldn’t.’ With a friendly nod, Cordus walked away.

‘Prick,’ muttered Fenestela. ‘I’d trust him as much as a sewer rat. What was he up to?’

‘No idea,’ replied Tullus. ‘Maybe he’s changed his mind about me.’

Fenestela made a phhhh noise of contempt.

‘I need wine,’ said Tullus. Cordus’ comment had driven home the magnitude of the danger that they had been in. ‘See if you can scrounge some from the quartermaster. Enough for the men who came with us too.’

‘The words “blood from a stone” spring to mind.’

‘Tell him it’s for the man who “saved” the governor,’ said Tullus with a wink. He pulled an aureus from his purse and handed it over. ‘That should move his fingers towards his keys. I want a decent vintage, mind, and lots of it.’

Fenestela winked back. ‘I’ll drive a hard bargain.’

Tullus busied himself for a time by congratulating the twenty legionaries who had come with him and Fenestela. They were good boys, he told them. He was proud of what they had done, and so was Germanicus. ‘It’s quite a thing to have saved the life of the emperor’s heir,’ Tullus said. ‘You’ll only get one chance to do that in this lifetime.’

They gave him the fierce, relieved grins of those who have survived the storm of iron and steel. There had been no combat, but the risk of dying had been as high as it was in the fiercest battle, and every one of them knew it.

‘All centurions, gather round!’

Flanked by Germanicus and Tubero, Caecina stood in the doorway of the main command tent.

Tullus made his way over, and was pleased by the recognition he received from other centurions: nods, muttered congratulations, even a few claps on the back. It was heartening that some of the acknowledgements came from men who had shunned him before. Perhaps the stain on his character – for having survived Arminius’ ambush – wasn’t impossible to wash away. Not everyone was pleased for him: Victor, Cordus’ ox-like henchman, was among those who said not a word. He glowered as Tullus was allowed to take a place at the front.

‘We are honoured by the presence among us of Germanicus Julius Caesar, our governor,’ announced Caecina.

The centurions were well schooled – and relieved that their supreme commander had arrived. A loud cheer went up.

‘I give you the imperial governor,’ said Caecina, half bowing to Germanicus and stepping back.

More cheering erupted.

Tall, imposing, Germanicus stood forward, and raised his hands for calm. ‘The time for celebration is not here yet, I am afraid. Having seen the gravity of the situation with my own eyes’ – and he gave Tullus a nod of appreciation – ‘the only way to placate the legionaries is to agree to their demands, in principle at least. I can see that you like that as little as I do, but there are few options open to me. I propose sending a letter to the mutineers’ leaders.’

Germanicus threw a look at Tubero, who all but preened himself. ‘Legate Tubero came up with the idea: a letter purporting to have Tiberius’ authority. It will grant discharge to legionaries who have served for twenty years and longer. Soldiers with sixteen or more years of service will receive a conditional discharge; their only obligation will be to fight – if there is need – in the four years following their release from the legions. Their official donative will be doubled. Legionaries’ pay will also be increased, by a half.’

Tullus saw his own disbelief mirrored in almost every centurion’s face. The mutineers weren’t stupid, he thought. Tiberius was known for his steady, cautious nature. He wasn’t the type to offer such generous terms, without any fight whatsoever. Was anyone prepared to say so, though?

Germanicus was an observant man. He sensed their unhappiness. ‘What is it? Speak up,’ he ordered, his gaze roaming from face to face. They settled on Tullus. ‘Well?’

Tullus took a deep breath. ‘They won’t fall for it, sir. I have no idea how the emperor thinks, the gods bless him forever, but I doubt that he would capitulate to such demands in the first instance. The mutineers will think the same.’ Tullus could hear no voices agreeing with him, and his guts churned.

Germanicus’ lips tightened, but he uttered no rebuke. Beside him, Caecina was scowling and Tubero’s cheeks were marked by red pinpricks of fury. Germanicus eyed the centurions again. ‘Are any of you of the same opinion?’

‘I am, sir.’ Surprising Tullus yet again, it was Cordus who had spoken. ‘They’ll be expecting to haggle over their demands, not just have them agreed to straight away.’

There were some rumbles of agreement, but few centurions would meet Germanicus’ eyes. It wasn’t surprising, thought Tullus, hoping that he hadn’t done the wrong thing. Only fools disagreed with high-ranking officials, let alone the emperor’s heir.

‘Can you offer me any other immediate choices?’ asked Germanicus.

A resounding silence followed, broken only by the drunken shouts of legionaries outside the principia.

We could sit and wait, thought Tullus. Send for the legions upriver, in Germania Superior. The local auxiliaries could even be used to put down the rebellion. He had had enough, however, of speaking up, of offering himself as the sacrificial sheep. While Germanicus held Tullus in some regard, Tubero still had it in for him, and was more than capable of turning Caecina, and perhaps even Germanicus himself, against him. Tullus had spent too long in the wilderness to risk losing the regard of his newfound, powerful benefactor, so he stitched his lip.

‘In that case, we shall proceed with the letter,’ declared Germanicus. ‘May the gods ensure that it puts an end to this madness.’

The divine help that Germanicus had wished for did not materialise. Some hours after the letter had been delivered to the mutineers’ leaders under a flag of truce, a vast crowd of legionaries assembled outside the principia. Many were drunk, and all were irate. Shouting that Germanicus should come forth – he did, with Tullus and his full century as protection – they destroyed his letter, calling it a forgery. Their demands were repeated, and this time, the legionaries threatened, they were ‘to be looked at with the respect they deserve’. In other words, Bony Face shouted, a settlement had better be forthcoming within a day, or Germanicus could expect to have the principia burned down around his noble ears. With him inside, the twins added, to a swelling roar of approval.

The furious mutineers didn’t wait for a reply. Their intimidating threats hung in the air as they marched off.

‘Curse them to Hades! Their insolence is unforgivable,’ snarled Germanicus. He glanced at Tullus, who was quick to keep his expression blank. There could be no ‘I told you so’ attitude with someone so high-ranking.

‘You were right,’ admitted Germanicus after a long moment. ‘They’re no fools.’

‘As you say, sir,’ replied Tullus in a neutral tone. ‘We’ll make them pay in the end.’

‘Indeed, but other matters are more pressing,’ muttered Germanicus. ‘What to do now?’

Tullus wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical, and discretion was the more prudent choice. He said nothing.

‘I could promise them an increase in pay, to be given on their return to barracks,’ said Germanicus. He shot a look at Tullus. ‘Would that work?’

Caught by Germanicus’ penetrating stare, Tullus had to answer. Hating the fact that he was a poor liar, he answered, ‘Men like to feel coin in their hands, sir, not listen to the promise of it days into the future.’

‘I am the imperial governor,’ said Germanicus, his jaw hardening. ‘I’ll not roll over to them, d’you hear?’

‘I understand, sir,’ said Tullus, thinking: you have to give them something tangible, or more blood will be spilled.

‘Take me inside,’ ordered Germanicus. ‘I must reflect on the best course of action.’

‘Sir.’ Tullus led the way, hoping that inspiration of a better kind would strike Germanicus before the mutineers’ patience ran out.

Tullus’ hopes were in vain. Whether through pride or inability to come up with a better option, Germanicus went ahead with his suggestion to the soldiers that an increase in pay would be paid when they marched back to their camps. Tullus was ordered to deliver the offer to the mutineers the following morning. He wasn’t surprised when Bony Face and his fellows rejected it out of hand. Red-faced with fury, Bony Face whipped his followers into a frenzy. Insults and then stones were thrown. In a calm voice, Tullus had his men close up and draw their swords. A stand-off developed, with both sides nervous and ready to fight, but neither quite prepared to begin the bloodletting. Tullus wanted to pull his soldiers back into the safety of the headquarters, but he had to get an answer for Germanicus first. ‘Will you accept the terms?’ he called out.

Bony Face stalked from the protection of his fellows, closing to within a dozen paces of Tullus’ men’s shields. ‘Tell your governor,’ he hissed, uncaring of the sword tips pointing at his heart, ‘that he had best come up with an offer that we actually believe. He’s got until sunset.’

‘Or what?’ demanded Tullus in a bullish tone.

‘Or I lead four legions against the principia,’ Bony Face retorted. ‘See how long you can hold out then.’

Germanicus was incandescent with rage when Tullus relayed the mutineers’ response. ‘The dog said what?’ Germanicus’ bellow was as loud as a centurion’s best parade roar.

Tullus repeated what he’d been told and, difficult though it was, continued to meet Germanicus’ gaze. ‘You have until sunset to give them your answer.’

‘Until sunset? I, the imperial governor, have to reply to that rabble? I, the emperor’s nephew, have to bandy words with scum who aren’t fit to polish my boots?’ Germanicus emitted a short, high-pitched laugh of disbelief. His eyes, sparking with anger, moved from Tullus to the other officers present. Most, Tubero included, were quick to drop their gaze.

‘It’s a terrible state of affairs, sir,’ ventured Caecina.

‘Jupiter on high, it’s insufferable!’ shouted Germanicus, pacing up and down. ‘Intolerable!’

No one dared answer him.

If only they had until the following morning, thought Tullus. Under the cover of darkness, he could have led a select group of men to assassinate Bony Face and the other ringleaders. While dangerous, the mission wouldn’t have been impossible. In daylight, however, it would border on suicidal. Valuing his soldiers’ lives more than anything, Tullus decided not to say a word. Germanicus was no fool; he had to realise that his back was to the wall.

‘What can we do?’ demanded Germanicus, his eyes still roving around the tent.

There was a sudden interest in belt buckles and the toes of men’s boots. Uneasy coughs vied with throats that were being cleared. Tullus’ pride wouldn’t let him bend his head, and he cursed inwardly as Germanicus honed in on him.

‘Do we lead an attack on the ringleaders, and cut off all the Hydra’s heads?’ Close up, Germanicus’ great height was even more pronounced. He glared down at Tullus.

‘I will if you order me to, sir,’ said Tullus in a monotone.

Germanicus scowled. ‘You don’t think it’s a good idea?’

‘We’re too few, sir. Even if we made it to wherever the ringleaders are, they would tear us apart. Like as not, the mob would then turn on the headquarters.’ Tullus wasn’t sure about the last part, but he was not going to offer his men up as sacrificial sheep on the altar of Germanicus’ pride.

Germanicus considered his words, and then he let out a long breath. ‘In darkness, we might have succeeded, but not during daylight.’

‘That would be my thought, sir,’ said Tullus, hiding his relief.

Germanicus stalked off, coming to a halt before Tubero. ‘It’s rare for you to be silent, legate. What have you to offer?’

Tubero puffed out his chest. ‘I’d be happy to lead an attack on the ringleaders, sir, but, as you say, it would be too dangerous.’

Germanicus made a little sound of derision and walked on. ‘Anyone else?’

Tullus’ frustration rose as no one said anything for several moments. Why should it be down to him to speak? Officers far more senior than he were present. Nephew of the emperor or no, imperial governor or no, Germanicus had to be told.

In the end, Caecina had the balls. ‘The way I see it, sir, we only have one option.’

Germanicus whirled around, his face taut with emotion. ‘What is that?’

‘The mutineers must be paid their money, sir,’ said Caecina. ‘In my opinion, that is the only thing they’ll accept.’

‘The only thing? The only thing?’ Germanicus’ face was purple with rage; the veins stood out on his neck.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Caecina, looking nervous.

Germanicus raised his bunched fists to the heavens and a drawn-out Ahhhhh of anger and frustration left his lips.

Everyone watched; no one dared speak.

‘If we are all slain, the mutiny will continue.’ Germanicus’ tone was flat. ‘Restoring order is imperative, even if it means giving into the mutineers.’

Heads nodded; voices muttered, ‘Yes, sir,’ and, ‘Agreed, sir.’ Tullus gave silent thanks to the gods.

‘I doubt that I have enough funds to pay every soldier in four legions what he’s “owed”,’ said Germanicus with a bitter laugh. His eyes moved to Caecina, and on to the legates present. ‘I shall have to ask for a loan.’

Tullus watched sidelong as the senior officers fell over themselves to offer their assistance. Germanicus won’t forget this, he thought. For an imperial governor and royal family member to have to beg financial aid of his subordinates was a humiliation of the first order.

‘Good,’ said Germanicus, a slight inclination of his head the only sign of gratitude. ‘From the sounds of it, we shall have enough coin to pacify the rapacious dogs.’ His gaze stopped on Tullus. ‘Will the legions return to their bases now?’

‘I’d wager so, sir.’

‘That’s all we need for now.’ There was a short pause, and then Germanicus added in an icy voice, ‘Justice can be served later.’