Hunting the Eagles

Chapter XI

Germanicus did not deign to show his face as the money was presented by Tullus and his men to the cheering mutineers. Fighting broke out the instant the mule-drawn wagon had left Tullus’ control; legionaries scrambled aboard, seizing money bags or slitting them with their daggers. Showers of denarii and sestertii rained down on the frenzied crowd as men hurled handfuls of them at their fellows.

Tullus looked on in disgust. ‘They’re a disgrace to the uniform,’ he muttered to Fenestela.

‘If they’d been paid what was due, this whole situation mightn’t have happened,’ said Fenestela.

It was an uncomfortable truth, thought Tullus, but rebelling against their commanders, not to mention murdering centurions, went too far against the grain. Military discipline had to be maintained, or the world would descend into bloody chaos.

Retribution would also have to be taken for what had happened.

Tullus wasn’t looking forward to that.

The day after the legionaries had been paid, Germanicus ordered the Fifth and Twenty-First back to Vetera. Bony Face and the rest agreed, bringing the mutiny to an end, and in theory allowing normal life to resume. It didn’t for Tullus. The brutal and unexpected events had tainted his love of the legions, for so many years his main reason for existence. He wasn’t alone – the mutiny had had a profound impact on everyone. The abiding sense of order, a reassuring and solid part of army life, had been destroyed.

Its absence was palpable everywhere, from the surly looks cast at officers by the legionaries, to the units lacking centurions and the waste that still littered the avenues. The rubbish could be cleaned up, and the camp abandoned, but it would take far more than that to restore the sense of trust that had been lost between officers and men. Tullus wasn’t sure if it could be done at all.

To his relief, Degmar had returned from over the river to lurk in one of the rough ‘boarding house’ tents outside the camp. His reappearance was an enormous relief to Tullus. Degmar brought with him a rumour – heard from an itinerant trader – that one of the three eagles taken during Arminius’ ambush had been given to the Marsi tribe, his people. This intrigued Tullus, and he resolved to tell Caecina or even Germanicus about it when the opportunity arose.

During the sixty-plus-mile journey to Vetera, which took place with little of the usual singing and banter among the legionaries, Tullus had plenty of time to brood. There was no doubt that most of the slain officers had been unpopular taskmasters. A number had been corrupt. A few had perhaps deserved to die for what they had done, but no more, and not at the hands of common soldiers. So many men had been complicit in the killings that it would have been impossible to punish them all, but if life were to return to normal, action had to be taken against some. That meant the ringleaders: men such as Bony Face, Fat Nose and the twins.

Germanicus had been right, Tullus concluded. Mouldy apples had to be removed from the barrel before the decay spread. That way, the other fruit would last for months. The rotten items in this case were men, not fruit, but the harsh principle was the same. Bony Face and his cronies would have to die. Life, as Tullus said to Fenestela, was often like that. Brutal.

Back in Vetera, it was even more apparent that the canker’s excision needed to be sooner rather than later. The men of Tullus’ century, whom he bound to him with a mixture of regular training and supplies of wine, remained solid. Things were different in the other centuries in his cohort, however. Bony Face and his cronies continued to foment unrest. Other mutineers did the same in other cohorts in the Fifth, and among the ranks of the Twenty-First. The discontent and ill discipline could have been overlooked in a few units perhaps, but spread over two entire legions they were a huge cause for concern.

The dawn trumpets, which were supposed to send every man tumbling from his blankets, were ignored. Routine tasks such as the felling of trees and transporting of firewood were not completed, or took twice as long as normal. Instead of patrolling the camp’s battlements as they were supposed to, sentries stayed in the watchtowers – dozing, according to some. Junior officers were disobeyed; even centurions found it hard to see their orders followed through. Tullus didn’t like to admit it, but he wasn’t in full control of his new command, the cohort previously led by Septimius. This didn’t weaken Tullus’ determination to establish control, though. Restoring him to his former rank was a mark of considerable favour from Germanicus, and such chances didn’t often come a man’s way.

Rumours abounded, of uprisings by legions elsewhere in the empire, of legates murdered in their beds, and of Germanicus’ auxiliaries being sent to Vetera, their mission to exact vengeance upon the mutinous legionaries. Gossip gleaned from the traders in the settlement outside the camp spoke of unrest among the German tribes on the far side of the river. Even the gods seemed to be unhappy. Winds and heavy rain flattened the last of the summer’s crops before they could be harvested, and on a local farm, a grotesque pair of calves, joined at the chest, were cut out of the mother that had died trying to birth them.

Under normal circumstances, such apparent divine intervention would have cowed the soldiers, most of whom were as superstitious as the ordinary man in the street. Now, though, it fuelled their resentment. The final proof that action had to be taken – as if Tullus needed evidence of that – came when news arrived from Ara Ubiorum, the camp that was still home to the First and Twentieth Legions, who had mutinied alongside the Fifth and Twenty-First.

Tullus was at the quartermaster’s office, demanding equipment needed by his unit, when word reached him. One of the quartermaster’s staff, a veteran with fewer teeth in his lower jaw than a newborn lamb, came barging through the door. ‘Jupiter’s cock, have you heard the news?’ He took in Tullus’ presence, and looked discomfited. A hasty salute followed. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t see you there.’

‘No matter.’ Tullus was pleased; the soldier had shown him the respect that he was due, which was more than could currently be said of many others. He indicated the quartermaster and the rest of his staff. ‘We all want to know what’s happened. Speak.’

‘A ship’s just come downriver from Ara Ubiorum, sir. Things have gone to hell there over the last ten days and more. Germanicus was away, placating the legions of Germania Superior, when a senatorial embassy arrived from Rome. By the time Germanicus had returned, the soldiers had panicked. They assumed that the embassy was there to order the deaths of their leaders, so they stormed the principia and seized their legions’ eagles. Germanicus’ wife and baby son were taken captive for a time.’

Stupid fools, thought Tullus, closing his eyes. ‘Were they harmed?’

‘No, sir, thank the gods,’ replied Toothless. ‘The soldiers love Agrippina and Little Boots too much to do them any injury. When they were released, Germanicus sent them away for their own safety to Augusta Treverorum, with auxiliaries as an escort. It seems that the legionaries were shocked to the core that he should entrust his family to the care of non-citizens, loyal though they are. When Germanicus addressed the troops the next day, and harangued them about their duty to Rome, they capitulated at once. The mutiny’s ringleaders were rounded up and handed over to the legions’ legates.’

‘They were executed, I assume?’ asked Tullus, dreading how many would have to die here, in Vetera.

A shadow passed over Toothless’ face. ‘About a hundred, they say, sir. It seems the prisoners were forced up on to platforms in front of their entire legion. A tribune called out to the troops, asking if each man was guilty or not. If the answer was yes, he was pushed off the platform into their midst, to be slain by his comrades.’

The savage scene was easy to picture. Tullus could almost hear the men’s pleas for mercy, and the animal roars of their fellows as they called for blood. ‘Is the same to happen here?’ he demanded. ‘Did the messenger say?’

Hobs clacked off the floor as Toothless shuffled his feet. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

I do, thought Tullus, with a sinking feeling. Germanicus couldn’t – wouldn’t – punish two of the once-mutinous legions while letting the other two off. Ordering the quartermaster to deliver his supplies by the next day or face his wrath, he took his leave. It was time to speak with the cohort’s other officers, and his men.

The news was spreading faster than a fire started in a hay barn. Everywhere Tullus could see, knots of legionaries were talking in lowered voices. Men were moving between barrack blocks, calling out to their comrades. Resentful looks from soldiers had become common of recent times, but it concerned Tullus to note more than a dozen during the short walk to his quarters. He even heard one insult – ‘Cocksucking centurion!’ – but by the time he’d wheeled, the culprit had vanished inside his barracks. Tullus considered storming in to find him, but judged it wasn’t worth the risk. There was no way of knowing if he would succeed in apprehending the right man, and his intervention might aggravate the situation. He didn’t want to be the one who relit the fire of mutiny, which was an outcome that felt all too possible.

Tullus could sense more ill will in the faces that stared at him from the barrack blocks’ tiny windows, and in the insolent way that legionaries moved out of his path, or saluted just a moment too late. Trouble was brewing. Violence was inevitable. Whether the blood that flowed would be that of officers or ordinary soldiers – or both – Tullus had no idea. It was clear, however, that the thorny issue of dealing with those who had mutinied could no longer be avoided.

Somehow ten days dragged by in this uneasy fashion. Each morning, Caecina called together the senior officers under his command, including the centurions and standard-bearers, and ordered them to report. Everyone, including Tullus, had the same thing to say. An odd status quo had developed in the camp, whereby the officers of the Fifth and Twenty-First did not demand much of their men. In return, it seemed, the legionaries’ behaviour did not worsen further. The uncomfortable situation was akin, Tullus decided, to having an unpredictable, large dog living in the house. Things were fine while the dog didn’t feel threatened – but when it did, it was liable to bite. Living with it meant walking around on tiptoes, always looking over one’s shoulder. In his mind, there was but one way to deal with such an animal, and that wasn’t by talking in a sweet voice and patting the brute on the head.

Caecina was prepared to let the uneasy state of affairs continue, however. Without authority from Germanicus, he said, he had no mandate to take action, drastic or no. ‘I have sent messengers asking for guidance,’ he told his officers. ‘Until word comes back from the governor, we will do nothing.’

There were grumbling comments about being murdered in their beds, but Caecina’s word was law, so the centurions kept their heads down and prayed to whatever gods they held dear.

Tullus didn’t pray. He worked on the soldiers of his new century – Septimius’ former one – keeping them busy with training manoeuvres and long marches. When they complained that other men in the cohort weren’t having to do the same, Tullus said that that was because he was turning them into the best soldiers in the whole cursed legion. Using a mixture of flattery, fresh meat and wine, Tullus jollied them along the way an experienced salesman softens up a potential customer. It worked – just – but he knew that his men wouldn’t listen to him forever. All he could do about those in the cohort who’d been prominent in the mutiny was to order Fenestela, Piso, Vitellius and more than a dozen others to keep an eye on them. Keen to keep the soldiers who’d been in the Eighteenth with him, Tullus had managed to have them moved from his former century to his new one.

It was an exhausting, stressful existence. Every few days, Tullus allowed himself an outlet for his tensions, heading into the settlement late at night, after his soldiers had retired. His destination was the Ox and Plough, his favourite watering hole, and where Artio, the girl he’d rescued during Arminius’ ambush, lived. With no possibility of looking after her himself, Tullus had entrusted Artio to the care of the tavern’s owner, Sirona, a feisty Gaulish woman with a heart of gold.

Tullus had no children, and over the previous five years Artio had become as dear to him as a daughter. It was apt that she’d been called after a goddess whose favourite animal was a bear, he often thought, because she was fond of sweet things, in particular honey. She was more spirited than was perhaps wise for a girl, something he was secretly proud of. Her temper was ferocious too – gods help the man who weds her, Sirona was fond of saying.

Under normal circumstances, Tullus visited Artio often when he was off duty, but of course it hadn’t been possible during the uncertain time since his return from the summer camp. A peek into her bedroom, a tiny chamber over the inn, was the best he could manage each time he visited late.

Eleven nights after the arrival of the news from Ara Ubiorum of the mutineers’ executions, he was doing just this. Artio was fast asleep, her long brown hair trailing behind her on the pillow, her dog Scylax dozing on the floor by the bed. Tullus studied her for a time, his heart swelling. Where does time go? he thought, feeling old. She was a tiny little thing when I found her. He glanced at Sirona, who had crept up with him, and whispered, ‘She’s growing fast.’

‘Cherish the time when she’s young,’ replied Sirona with a wistful look in her eyes. ‘One moment they’re babes, and the next, they are adults.’

It was hard to believe that Sirona had three full-grown sons, Tullus reflected, admiring her still-comely features and generous curves. He had made several advances to her over the years, each of which she had rebuffed. ‘I’ve been made a widow once,’ she had said every time, her smile taking the sting from her words. ‘I’m not about to be one to the army as well.’

Tullus was distracted at this point by a head butting against his leg, and a tail swooshing the air. Grinning, he reached down to pat Scylax, who had padded out of her room. ‘Good boy.’ When he’d saved Artio during the ambush, he had also rescued a mongrel pup, whom she had named Scylax. Girl and dog had been constant companions ever since.

At that moment, Artio’s eyes opened. She took in Tullus’ shape at her door, and hurled herself from her blankets into his arms. ‘Tullus!’ she squealed.

Tullus gave her a fierce hug, then set her back on her feet and gave her a mock stern look. ‘It’s well past your bedtime.’

‘You shouldn’t stand outside my room gossiping with Sirona then,’ came the tart reply.

‘True enough. We might as well have a talk now that you’re awake,’ said Tullus, ignoring Sirona’s disapproving look. ‘You have to get back into bed, though.’ He perched on a stool, drinking in her chatter of new sandals, the wild birds that Scylax had caught, and what she had got up to with her friends. After the camp’s toxic atmosphere, this was a breath of fresh air. At length, however, Artio began to yawn. Kissing her farewell, and promising to return soon, he gave Scylax a final pat and left them both to sleep.

Placing his feet with care, so that his hobs didn’t clash off the floorboards, Tullus made his way to the head of the precipitous stairs that led back to the inn. The noise of the tavern’s customers, which he’d been aware of in the background, returned to the fore. He was halfway down the staircase when the front door opened and shut with a bang. ‘Tullus! Are you here?’ Despite the clamour, he recognised Fenestela’s voice.

Sudden dread gripped Tullus. Had the troops mutinied again?

He hurried down into the main room, catching Fenestela’s eye with a casual wave of his arm. Plenty of the patrons were ordinary legionaries; whatever the reason for Fenestela’s arrival, there was no point in drawing attention.

Fenestela reached his side in ten paces. ‘It’s good you’re here.’

‘Where else would I be?’ replied Tullus, adding for the sake of those who were nearby, ‘Need some wine?’

‘My thanks.’ Fenestela leaned in close, and muttered, ‘Caecina has called a meeting. Every centurion, every optio, tesserarius and signifer in the two legions is to meet him at the principia.’

‘In the morning?’

‘Now.’

If Fenestela’s face hadn’t been so grim, Tullus would have thought he was joking. He wondered if it had been wise to come out in his tunic, with only a dagger for protection. ‘At this time of night?’

Fenestela placed his lips against Tullus’ ear. ‘A messenger arrived from Germanicus not an hour ago.’

Despite the two cups of wine he’d had, Tullus suddenly felt stone cold sober.

Tullus was well used to wandering the straight, wide avenues of the camp in the dark, using a torch to guide his way. He wasn’t accustomed to creeping along them in the pitch black, trying not to be heard by a soul. However, Caecina’s orders had been unequivocal – his officers were to arrive at the principia without being seen. As he and Fenestela neared their destination, they had several false alarms, and laid hands to their daggers. To their relief, those they encountered were other officers making their way to the meeting. Apart from the sentries at the camp gates – who had assumed Tullus and Fenestela were returning from a night out – the ordinary soldiers appeared to be asleep.

At the principia’s entrance, members of Caecina’s bodyguard demanded their names, ranks and units. A second officer had to vouch for each man before he was admitted. This additional security measure was something that Tullus had never encountered before. ‘Whatever Caecina says is going to be bad,’ he said to Fenestela.

After the blackness outside, the light in the headquarters’ main hall was dazzling. Hundreds of oil lamps – on stands, hanging from chains, placed in the wall niches – lit up the room almost as bright as day. Light glittered off the eagles and standards of the two legions which had been carried from the shrine and placed against the back wall. Caecina had engineered this because the emblems would stir his officers’ emotions, thought Tullus, his heart swelling at the memory of his last visit here, some months before Arminius’ ambush. The standards represented the courage, pride and status of each unit, each cohort, each legion. Men would do almost anything to keep them safe. Losing an arm or a leg, even dying, was preferable to seeing one’s standard taken by the enemy. Gods, but Tullus knew that; he lived with the shame of it every day. Eyeing the Fifth’s eagle, he tried to relish the small amount of pride he took from serving in its legion.

Hundreds of men were already present, and more were entering with each moment. Each legion contained sixty centuries, every one of which had a centurion, optio, tesserarius and signifer. When the musicians were also taken into account – Tullus saw them gathering too – there would be more than five hundred soldiers present. He spied Cordus and Victor, and their cronies, most of whom acknowledged him. Victor didn’t, of course.

Caecina emerged from the shrine with his legates and tribunes, and as they moved to stand by the eagles, silence fell. Despite the hour, the governor and his companions wore the full regalia of their office. Winks and flashes of light bounced off Caecina’s armour, which had been burnished to a mirror-like sheen. He looked magnificent, from head to toe the important man he was, and radiating the authority to issue the harshest of orders.

‘Is everyone here?’ Caecina’s voice carried across the hall to the entrance, where a dozen of his bodyguards stood. Receiving a nod, he ordered the doors shut. His eyes raked the gathering. ‘In these sad and uncertain times, you are the only soldiers I can trust in all of the Fifth and Twenty-First. I have called you together to advise you of Germanicus’ letter, which arrived not long since. He will be travelling here soon with a strong escort.’ Men began to exchange relieved looks, but Caecina’s expression grew sombre. ‘There’s more. Before his arrival, Germanicus expects me to have executed anyone disloyal, else he will do it himself.’

‘I knew it,’ said Tullus to Fenestela. Part of him was relieved. Getting the brutal deed out of the way would restore order, and allow life to continue. Part of him felt like the worst sort of criminal, however, left with no alternative but to murder a comrade.

‘Two grim choices lie before me – and you,’ Caecina announced. ‘We can complete the task, or wait until Germanicus comes to do it for us. I don’t have to tell you which is the better option. We deal with this tomorrow. By “deal with”, I mean, we kill the foremost mutineers.’

His words sank in for three, six, ten uneasy heartbeats.

Tullus cleared his throat. ‘Who is to die, sir?’

Men stepped aside, both to see who he was, and to allow Caecina a view of him. It felt uncomfortable, and Tullus thought: we’re all in this together, you dogs.

‘A pertinent question, Tullus,’ said Caecina. ‘The simple answer is that each of you, from senior centurion down to musician, has to decide on the guiltiest soldiers in your unit. Talk about it now, come to an agreement and compile a list. Some centuries will have more disloyal men than others – that cannot be helped. What’s vital is that we cut every dead branch from the tree with one pass of our blades.’

Our blades? thought Tullus, bitterness pouring through him. You won’t be bloodying your noble hands, oh no – that’s for us poor fools.

‘When is it to be done, sir?’ asked Cordus.

‘At midday, while the men are preparing their meal. You will have time beforehand to instruct those of your soldiers who are to aid you in this.’ Caecina’s smile was brittle, cold. ‘Questions?’

There were none.

‘When I return in one hour, you will have your lists ready,’ ordered Caecina. ‘There are writing tablets and styluses by the entrance.’

An air of foreboding, of doom, sank over the assembly as the senior officers made their way to one of the offices at the side of the hall.

Men were avoiding each other’s eyes, but Tullus and Fenestela shared a bleak look.

‘I never thought I’d see a moment like this,’ Fenestela said, muttering an oath that would whiten a man’s hair. ‘This ain’t what I signed up for.’

‘Nor I, but the situation’s like an abscess that won’t come to a head. Besides, Caecina’s given us the order,’ retorted Tullus, feeling angry, sad and resentful. ‘I can tell you the first four names to write down.’

‘Bony Face. Fat Nose and the twins.’ Fenestela swore again. ‘I’ll get the tablet and stylus,’ he said, and joined the queue.

Tullus had a sour, unpleasant taste in his mouth. He and Fenestela were about to draw up a list of men they intended to murder.

How had it come to this?