Hunting the Eagles

Chapter XXI

His stomach churning, Piso studied the mainsail with jaundiced eyes. It had been hanging limp for some time, but now it fluttered and fell back against the mast. A heartbeat later, it did the same. And again. Air moved against Piso’s cheek. A wind had come up at last. Standing close to the mast amongst his comrades, he watched as the great hemp rectangle billowed forward and sagged back by turns. Before long, it had swelled to its maximum, aiding the sweating oarsmen and driving the long, shallow-bottomed craft out into the Mare Germanicum. Less than a month had passed since the morale-boosting capture of Arminius’ wife and freeing of his father-in-law, and Germanicus had been swift to act, launching a three-pronged attack into the enemy hinterland.

It was Piso’s bad luck that his legion had been selected to sail around the northern coasts and make landfall in the sheltered estuary of the River Amisia. They would strike inland from there. He cast a mournful glance back at the Flevo Lacus, the sheltered lake that formed part of the Rhenus’ estuary, across which they had rowed over the previous days. Its rocky shores and populations of screeching seabirds that he’d so despised now seemed far more attractive than the blue-green waves beneath the hull and the desolate expanse on every side. He wasn’t alone in his misery, and Piso took a certain sour satisfaction from the number of unhappy faces around him, and the muttering about storms and sea monsters. Not a soldier of the two centuries packed on the vessel seemed happy with his lot. Even Vitellius, the stoic, was giving the bronze amulet at his neck a crafty rub.

Tullus and Fenestela, heads bent together as usual, were unperturbed, but that was as it should be. Even if they were only pretending not to be scared, thought Piso, it didn’t matter. Their calm expressions and steady voices were there to reassure the men, whatever the situation.

A wave crashed off the prow, showering everyone within thirty paces with freezing water. Groans and curses went up even as the ship’s captain, an old salt with white hair, laughed. ‘Better get used to it, boys,’ he cried from his platform above them. ‘This is nothing compared to what Neptunus can throw at us.’

‘Gods, what are we doing?’ Piso asked of no one in particular.

‘Following orders,’ said Vitellius.

‘As usual,’ added Saxa. ‘That’s all we ever do.’

‘The soldier’s lot.’ Metilius cast a look at each of them in turn. ‘But we’re together again, eh, and that’s what counts.’

Everyone nodded. Piso managed a smile of sorts. Germanicus’ purpose – to wreak revenge for what had been done to Varus and his legions – didn’t count here, on this perilous sea. What mattered when a man felt as if he were about to drown at any moment were his comrades. Since their mission to rescue Degmar’s family, Piso and Vitellius had spent increasing amounts of time with Saxa and Metilius, both solid, decent men. The four were now tent mates as well – fortuitously, Piso and Vitellius’ contubernium had been two short.

Piso got on better with Saxa, who was also fond of playing dice, but Metilius’ unflappable good humour was impossible not to like. Better to drown with them, or to vanish into the maw of a sea monster, Piso decided, than to die on his own.

Another, bigger wave broke over the bows of the ship, and the resultant spray coated everyone from head to toe. Groans went up, and curses, but the loudest voices were those begging the gods for mercy. Muttering a prayer of his own, Piso pulled the front of his cloak lower, trying too late to protect his mail shirt.

‘The thing’s going to rust no matter what you do,’ advised Vitellius. ‘Besides, Tullus won’t make us clean them until we get back to Vetera.’

‘If we get back,’ added Saxa in a dour tone.

The boat lurched as a wave slammed into its port side and, guts heaving, Piso forgot about his armour. The choppy motion had him concentrating on one thing – not vomiting – but it was a battle he soon lost. If there was any consolation to be taken from covering his feet and sandals with the contents of his stomach, it was that plenty of others had done so before him, among them Saxa and Metilius. Vitellius held out for a time, but succumbed at last to the acrid stink of bile and the ship’s never-ending pitching and rolling.

‘Ha! You’re no sailor either,’ said Piso.

Vitellius wiped a string of phlegm from his lips and flicked it downward on to the foul liquid that slopped around at their feet, a broth of seawater, vomit, piss and worse. He levelled a baleful stare at Piso. ‘Never said I was.’

‘Will Tullus throw up, d’you think?’

They glanced at the centurion. To their disbelief, he was tucking into a hunk of bread. Between bites, he was conducting a shouted conversation with the captain. By his side, meanwhile, a green-faced Fenestela was staring everywhere but at Tullus’ food.

Piso chuckled. ‘He won’t. Five denarii on it. Any takers?’

His only replies were ribald comments about what he could do with his coins. Piso didn’t mind. With Tullus, the indestructible Tullus, unaffected by the conditions, he had nothing to worry about. Their ship would not sink, Piso knew it, because Tullus was on board. He wasn’t about to shout his defiance at the lowering grey sky, nor even to speak it aloud – Piso wasn’t that stupid – but Tullus’ presence felt like a heavens-sent guarantee that their miserable voyage would end with a successful landfall.

He hoped that the rest of the flotilla – the scores of ships on either side, packed with troops, equipment and horses – fared as well. If they did, gods willing, the treacherous Germans wouldn’t know what had hit them. That was, Piso thought with a tinge of humour, once he and his comrades had stopped feeling sick.

Piso’s convictions were well tested in the two days and nights that followed. Heavy seas and strong winds split up the fleet, driving the better ships ahead and causing the older, less well-constructed vessels no end of problems. If he had been grateful at the outset not to be ordered on to one of the half-derelict troop carriers left over from Drusus’ naval campaigns, Piso was doubly so once he’d seen other craft sinking. He and his comrades grew used, if not immune, to the despairing wails of drowning men that carried over the waves. Their own ship, a new build, sprang a leak at one stage, but constant bailing kept the water levels at a manageable depth. Soaked to the skin, nauseous, and thirstier than he’d ever been after a long summer’s day march, Piso endured with his comrades.

It took four more days for the last of the stragglers to limp in to their destination, and a day after that for a final headcount. When that had been completed, the news that nine ships and more than seven hundred crewmen and soldiers had gone to the bottom travelled between the troops like wildfire. So did the revelation that several big-bellied transports loaded with grain and sour wine had foundered. Scores of horses had also been lost. Matters weren’t helped that day by the drowning of several legionaries as a ship was being unloaded. Their deaths were blamed by most on the new, heavy type of segmented armour they had been wearing. Whatever the reason for their demise, a dark mood fell over the entire camp.

More alert to such things because of the previous year’s mutiny, Tullus bought a fat lamb from a local Chauci farmer and sacrificed it on the muddy beach, giving loud thanks to Neptunus for holding his net close beneath them as they sailed over his watery realm. Other centurions were quick to emulate his move, and when Germanicus ordered a wine ration to be doled out, morale soon lifted. Scores more sheep were purchased from the Chauci tribesmen, who were long-standing, trusted allies of Rome. As the sun set that evening – even the weather had improved – the air was rich with the scent of roasting mutton and filled with the sounds of half-drunk, happy soldiers.

Despite the pounding heads that resulted from the night’s carousing, there were few objections the following morning when the trumpets sounded and the officers hounded the legionaries from their blankets. Germanicus had given the order to march and, hung over or not, the troops were keen to get on with the task in hand. They weren’t here to paddle in the sea and to look for shells along the shore, Tullus roared, but to find the tribes who had slain their comrades, and to wipe them out. His men yelled back their approval.

Piso was in an optimistic mood. With solid ground underfoot, dry clothing and a full belly, it was easy to feel good about the world. Their force was strong, and it was a considerable distance to the borders of the Chauci lands. Although they would march in combat order, there was little chance of an immediate enemy attack. The Chauci were friendly, and many of their warriors served as auxiliaries with the legions. There was no silver-tongued Arminius figure to lead them astray here.

After three days’ march, the safety of the Chauci territory was left behind. The next tribe in the army’s path, the Amisuarii, who lived in and around the southward-leading River Amisia, would cause no trouble, the Romans were told by the auxiliary cavalry. Emissaries were already on their way, with hostages and promises of loyalty to Rome.

‘If our journey was going to be this easy, we should have saved our hobnails and sailed downriver,’ Piso commented late on the fourth day. He raised a hand against Vitellius’ retort. ‘I know, too many of the ships needed repairs.’

‘Would you rather be on land or afloat if we’re attacked?’ asked Saxa, ever the wary one. ‘We’ll be reaching Bructeri territory soon. They laid an ambush on the River Amisia for Drusus, remember.’

‘It’s still nice to dream about not having to march. About not having to carry this.’ Piso indicated his unwieldy yoke with his eyes.

‘Perhaps you should have joined the navy, Piso.’ Tullus had appeared to come, as he did so often, from nowhere. ‘I saw how much you enjoyed being out on the waves during our voyage.’

Piso flushed as his comrades hooted with laughter. ‘I’m happy in the legions, sir. And with my yoke.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’ With a chuckle, Tullus rode off.

‘You could always try the river fleet,’ Vitellius suggested to Piso. He winked at Saxa and Metilius. ‘There’s far less bad weather than on the open ocean. You’d almost never have to go to sea.’

‘Piss off,’ retorted Piso. ‘Why don’t you become a sailor?’

‘I’m a happy footslogger, me,’ said Vitellius, his shrug setting the pots and pans on his yoke to clatter. ‘Always have been.’

‘I’ll remind you of that the next time you’re whingeing about a blister, or a sore neck,’ said Piso with a triumphant look. When it came to complaining, Vitellius was one of the most vocal men in the century. Saxa and Metilius snickered; Vitellius glowered.

Piso grinned. It was at times like this, he decided, that life was at its finest. He was with his closest friends, joking and carrying on like carefree youths. They were marching heavily laden, it was true, and sweating like mules, but the weather was pleasant and not too hot. Their rations were being supplemented daily by plenty of meat – sheep and cattle – bought from the local tribesmen, and, like the good centurion he was, Tullus saw to it that there was wine on offer each night.

Battles were inevitable later in the campaign, but Piso knew they would take place on Germanicus’ terms. When this force met with the two others that had set out from various forts on the Rhenus, they would outnumber any foe who faced them. Vengeance will be ours, thought Piso, remembering with a pang Afer and the rest of his comrades who’d been slain in the Teutoburg Forest. Arminius can try his best, but we will send every last one of his warriors into the mud. Rome will emerge triumphant, he promised himself. Most important of all, the Eighteenth’s eagle would be recovered.

Some days later, Piso was helping to dig the defensive trench for the night’s camp. For half the men of a campaigning army, this least-loved of tasks came at the end of every second day’s march. His turn was this afternoon, and despite the long job that lay before him and his already aching muscles, Piso was still in good spirits. Around him, his comrades were too. Saxa was halfway through a popular ditty about a brothel, and was bawling the filthiest chorus line in time with each strike of his pickaxe.

The whole contubernium was taking part – Vitellius and others throwing in additional, imaginative lines whenever possible. Infected by their enthusiasm and volume, the men nearby had begun to join in too. Tullus, who was strolling along the top of the ditch, supervising, had a tiny smile on his face. Piso even thought he’d heard Fenestela whistling the song’s tune.

The campaign had begun well, Piso decided. Their arrival from the north had caught the Bructeri napping, and their force was now deep in the tribe’s territory. Settlements and farms had been abandoned wholescale, their panicked inhabitants fleeing into the surrounding forests. Resistance had been sporadic and, for the most part, ineffectual. There’d been one serious attack, the previous day, but it had been thrown back with massive casualties among the Bructeri tribesmen. Piso hadn’t even seen the fighting, because the assault had struck a different part of the marching column.

More promising news – swift to spread between the soldiers – had been brought by the Chauci scouts returning from the south. The two other parts of Germanicus’ army, one under the command of the general Caecina and the second under the legate Stertinius, had already combined and were less than twenty miles away. Together they had also laid waste to large numbers of Bructeri villages, and slain many hundreds of warriors.

If things continued like this, thought Piso, there was a chance that they’d be back in Vetera before the harvest. He dampened his enthusiasm before it took root. Germanicus would not lead his vast army back to its camps early. Teaching the tribes who’d risen against Rome their lesson would take time, even if the legions won every battle. We’ll be here until the autumn, Piso told himself. Get used to it.

Saxa had reached the last verse of his song, in which the hero – a legionary, naturally – is forced to choose between his comrades, who are leaving on campaign, and a big-breasted, willing whore. Conscious that every soldier within fifty paces was hanging off his words, he’d stopped digging – a risky move, with Tullus still about. Yet Saxa had made a calculated judgement. Piso spied their centurion close by, hands on hips. A broad and unusual grin was splitting his face – clear permission for Saxa to finish.

Cheering broke out as Saxa bellowed the final line, telling the legionaries what they’d heard a thousand times: that a good fuck is unforgettable, but doesn’t last. A man’s comrades, on the other hand, will stay with him to the end – even unto death.

‘I hope he nailed her good and proper before walking out the door,’ shouted Vitellius.

It was an old joke, but roars of laughter rose nonetheless.

‘A fine rendition, Saxa,’ said Tullus. ‘Time to get back to work. The same applies to the rest of you maggots!’ The meaningful tap of his vitis on his right greave was lost on no one, and every soldier bent his back at once. Tullus’ beady gaze wandered up and down the ditch before he resumed his pacing.

Piso and his comrades continued to talk amongst themselves, in quiet tones. Tullus permitted that, as long as their work rate was satisfactory. Veterans all, they didn’t need much encouragement. Once the camp was built, their tents could be erected and they could shed themselves of the dead weight of their armour and weapons.

The trench was complete and the rampart half-finished when Tullus gave the order to fetch the palisade stakes that would decorate the top of the completed defences. Each soldier had to carry two of the arm-length pieces of timber on the march. Buried daily in the earthen parapet and tied together with rope, they formed an extra deterrent against potential attackers. Moving the stakes was a great deal easier than tamping down the top of the fortifications, and so there was often a race between tent mates to lay down their pickaxes and make for the heaped timbers. On this occasion, Piso and Vitellius got there first. Tullus was watching so Saxa, Metilius and the rest retreated to the earthworks, throwing sour looks at the lucky pair.

Piso had scooped up a bundle of a dozen stakes and was halfway down the ditch when riotous cheering broke out among the legionaries forming the defensive screen, some 250 paces away. These were the men who had built the camp the day before, and whose turn it was now to protect Piso and the other workers. He cast a glance at Tullus – it was always best to make sure he wouldn’t be reprimanded for slacking – and, happy that his centurion was also trying to decide what was going on, clambered back out of the ditch. Everyone was staring now – two messengers seemed to have arrived – and already the rumours were starting.

‘There’s been a sign from the gods – victory will be ours this summer,’ someone said. ‘Arminius is dead – slain by his own kind.’ ‘The Angrivarii have come over to us – or the Chasuari. Maybe both.’

Piso couldn’t help but chuckle. The stories were growing more outlandish by the moment. If the truth didn’t emerge soon, men would have Tiberius arriving in their midst, brought by Mercury himself. He sniffed. Gods did not carry anyone, even the rulers of empires. Emperors did not visit their far-flung provinces, still less risk their imperial lives in barbarian lands. The cheering was because of something more banal, like the discovery in a settlement of hundreds of barrels of German beer.

Then Piso heard the word ‘eagle’ being shouted. His heart almost stopped, and his eyes shot to Tullus. The loss of the Eighteenth’s revered standard had hit him harder than anyone Piso knew. All the colour had drained from Tullus’ face; Piso looked back – the messengers, two men on sweat-soaked horses, had cleared the legionaries’ screen and were galloping towards them, and the camp entrance, which lay close by.

Piso’s mouth fell open as Tullus strode right into the riders’ path. The pair had to rein in hard to avoid trampling him. ‘Out of the way!’ shouted the lead horseman. ‘We carry important news for the imperial governor himself.’

It was as if Tullus was deaf. He took hold of the first horse’s reins, ignoring the rider’s outrage. ‘What news?’

The messengers shared a look; then the lead one shrugged and said, ‘An eagle has been found, sir, among the Bructeri.’

Despite the warm sun on his back, Piso shivered. He was conscious that around him men were muttering and praying. One soldier – Vitellius? – had even fallen to his knees.

‘Which legion is it from?’ demanded Tullus, his tone more commanding than Piso had ever heard it.

‘The Nineteenth, sir.’

Tullus’ hand fell away from the reins, and he stepped back. ‘Wonderful news,’ he said in a quiet voice.

The first messenger’s sour expression eased a little. ‘You were in the Seventeenth or Eighteenth, sir?’

Tullus’ head came up again. Even at a distance, the pride in his eyes was clear. ‘The Eighteenth.’

‘A fine legion, sir,’ said the messenger. ‘May your eagle be found next.’

‘It’s only a matter of time.’ Tullus’ tone was confident. Stepping back to allow the riders past, he wheeled towards his watching men. ‘D’you hear that, brothers? One eagle has flown home – and the other two will soon follow! Roma Victrix!’

The refrain was taken up all along the ditch and rampart. ‘Ro-ma Vic-trix! Ro-ma Vic-trix!’

With tears of joy running down his cheeks, Piso roared the words until his voice cracked.