Hunting the Eagles

Chapter VII

Three days went by in the great summer camp. Piso and his comrades were often on sentry duty, watching the groups of mutineers who surrounded the principia. To Piso’s relief, they made no attempt to attack the position. Much of the time, it seemed that the rebellious legionaries’ only purpose was to drink every drop of wine they could find. Once it became clear that there was to be no assault, morale within the headquarters rallied a good deal. Because of the mutineers’ drunken state, Piso and Vitellius didn’t object when Tullus sent them out at night to collect water and steal much-needed supplies.

Each day, Caecina sent messengers on horseback to find Germanicus. As he said repeatedly, ‘One might fail to get through, or two, but not all of them. Germanicus will soon hear of our plight.’

His words did little to reassure Vitellius. ‘How will Germanicus bring the mutineers around?’ he asked Piso over and over. ‘Other than by granting their demands of course, which isn’t likely.’

Piso had no answer, but he’d heard Tullus saying that Germanicus would know what to do, and that was good enough for him. All they had to do was hold out until the general arrived. He was less than impressed, therefore, when Tullus sought him and Vitellius out early on the fourth morning with orders to go out into the camp to see what they could discover about the mutineers’ intentions.

‘It won’t be that dangerous,’ Tullus declared. ‘The stupid bastards have only placed a couple of sentries around the sides and rear. It’ll be easy to slip out.’

‘It’s not that, sir,’ said Piso, his fear giving him the courage to answer back. ‘What if we get recognised?’

‘Wear a hooded cloak. Avoid the Fifth’s tent lines – go and see what’s happening where the other legions are camped. If you do happen to spy anyone you know, just walk the other way. It can’t be hard to avoid attention in a camp of seventeen thousand men.’

Tullus was right, Piso told himself. ‘All right, sir.’

‘Good lad. You’ll be fine.’ Tullus gripped his shoulder. ‘I’d come with you, but Caecina has forbidden it. Says he needs me here.’

‘Is anyone else to go, sir?’ asked Vitellius.

‘Six others from the century. You will operate in pairs, though. You’d attract more attention in larger numbers. It’s tunics, belts, swords and a cloak each – nothing more. I’ll be back soon.’ With an approving nod, Tullus left them to it.

Piso and Vitellius exchanged a meaningful glance.

‘It can’t be worse than the forest was,’ muttered Vitellius.

That was small consolation, thought Piso. If they were denounced by a single legionary, they’d be beaten to death in the blink of an eye, as traitors.

‘Ready?’ hissed Piso. They had both just clambered over the rampart and ditch that now ran around the principia. There was no one in sight, but that would change fast, even at this early hour. Not every mutinous legionary lay abed until midday.

‘Aye.’

Piso was already walking north. He wanted to put a good distance between them and the Fifth’s lines, which lay near the camp’s southern gate. Apart from a handful of former comrades from the Eighteenth, he didn’t know a soul in any of the other three legions, and was glad of it at this moment.

‘Hood up or not?’ asked Vitellius, pacing alongside.

‘Heart says up, head says down,’ answered Piso. ‘It’s not cold, though, is it?’

Vitellius’ hand fell to his side. ‘Aye, I suppose you’re right. Makes it a shitload more frightening, though, eh?’

‘Gods, aye.’ Piso was fighting a continual battle to keep his fingers from straying to his sword hilt. He gave the phallus amulet at his neck a surreptitious rub. ‘What should we talk about? We can’t walk in silence – that might draw attention too.’

‘That’s easy,’ replied Vitellius, chuckling. ‘Stories about hunting, drinking and whores will keep us busy for hours. Longer, if you talk about gambling.’

‘You start.’

‘All right.’ Vitellius launched into the tale of a three-day drinking spree that he’d been on once, with Afer and two others of their old contubernium in the Eighteenth.

Piso’s heart twinged at the mention of Afer, who had been his first friend when he joined the army. Now his bones mouldered in the forest, like so many thousand others. Afer had died saving Piso’s life, and Piso remembered him every day for that. However, Vitellius’ tale was riotous, all men falling into latrine trenches and being sick in other men’s drinking cups, and its gutter humour helped Piso to stop brooding about the danger they were in – for a time at least.

Emerging on to a larger avenue, they aimed towards the northwest corner of the camp. Neat rows of tan-coloured goatskin tents ran off in every direction. Dozens, scores, hundreds of them, each home to a contubernium of legionaries. There was nothing unusual about the tents – the complete opposite in fact. Their presence and layout was something Piso was accustomed to, but it drove home more than he’d anticipated how alone he and Vitellius were.

The men standing about, talking, cooking, and farting inside their tents, were all mutineers. Vitellius’ voice faded into the background as Piso studied the nearest soldiers sidelong. That man there, stretching as he came out of his tent, and that one, striking flints together to light a fire, and another, scratching his stubble and giving them a friendly nod, they were no longer comrades. They were rebels, men who would gut him and Vitellius for staying loyal. They were the enemy.

‘You hungry?’ asked Piso as the familiar smell of cooking porridge filled his nostrils.

Vitellius looked irritated at being interrupted. ‘I had a bite before we left. Reckoned we mightn’t get a chance to eat until tonight. You?’

‘Not even a crumb, worse luck. If the truth be told, I was feeling sick,’ said Piso. ‘Funny thing is, I’m fucking starving now.’

‘You’re getting used to being out here,’ whispered Vitellius, giving him an evil smile. ‘I don’t want to hear how hungry you are for the rest of the day, mind. It’s your own fault.’

‘Screw you,’ retorted Piso, giving Vitellius a shove.

They both laughed.

‘Want something to eat?’ called a voice.

Terror closed Piso’s throat. How could they have been so stupid, he wondered, talking loud enough to be overheard? Casually, he turned his head. Fifteen paces away, a squat barrel of a man in a stained tunic stood over a fire. A ladle dangled from his hand, and at his feet, wisps of steam rose from a battered pot perched amid the burning logs. Somehow Piso found his voice. ‘What are you cooking?’

‘Porridge, same as every other whoreson in the place,’ came the reply, with a dirty chuckle. ‘You two have been on sentry duty at the front gate, eh? Your tent mates will have shovelled down all the porridge at your tent by the time you get back. I know what the bastards are like. My friends’ – and he jerked a dismissive thumb at the tent behind him – ‘did the same to me two nights ago, so you’re welcome to share mine.’

‘You’re a generous man,’ said Vitellius. ‘But you will leave yourself with none. We’ll find a morsel somewhere.’

‘We have plenty.’ Barrel nudged a nearby sack with the toe of his sandal. ‘Yesterday I broke into part of the quartermaster’s stores that by some miracle hadn’t yet been ransacked. I came away with this and half a ham. You’re not having any of the meat, but I can manage a bowl of porridge.’

Piso glanced at Vitellius, who gave him a look. Piso wasn’t sure if it meant ‘Why not?’ or ‘Walking away will look suspicious’, but he couldn’t prevaricate either, because that too might cause suspicion, so he smiled at Barrel. ‘Gratitude, brother. I’m famished.’

‘The hours seem to double in length when you’re pacing up and down a fucking rampart, with only the corpses of centurions in the ditch to look at. Come on over,’ said Barrel. He shoved out a meaty hand. ‘Gaius.’

‘Piso. My friend’s called Vitellius.’ The situation in the camp was really bad, Piso thought, if there were dead centurions in the defensive ditch beyond the rampart. He wondered how many had been murdered.

Gaius gave them both an amiable grin. ‘No sign of Germanicus, was there?’

Fresh alarm bathed Piso. He had to pretend that they had been on watch all night. ‘No, not a thing.’

‘I didn’t think so. The way I’ve heard it, whoever is on sentry duty has to alert the whole cursed camp when that happens. The leaders want everyone there to greet him.’

‘That’d be right,’ agreed Piso, his palms prickling, hoping not to get caught out.

‘I’d love to see Germanicus’ face when he realises how many of us there are,’ said Gaius, filling a cracked red Samian bowl and handing it to Vitellius. ‘Four entire legions, bar the few miserable cocksuckers who remained “loyal”.’

‘The prick will shit his perfumed undergarment,’ said Vitellius, with a grateful nod for the porridge.

Chuckling, Gaius passed a bowl to Piso, whose heart was still pounding at the mention of ‘loyal’ men. ‘Got your own spoon?’

‘Aye.’ Piso fumbled in his purse, grateful that he hadn’t removed his spoon before leaving the principia. He blew on the steaming oats, and took a mouthful. ‘It’s good.’

‘There’s no need to lie,’ said Gaius with a snort. ‘The shit tastes the same as always. Plain but filling.’

‘It’s more than we had a moment ago, and we’re grateful,’ said Piso.

Gaius looked pleased. ‘You going for a kip after this?’

‘Might as well, eh?’ replied Vitellius. ‘It’s not as if any cursed centurion or optio will stop us.’

‘It’s like being in Elysium not to have fucking trumpets wake me before sparrow’s fart every morning,’ said Gaius, chuckling. His face grew serious. ‘What did you do to your centurion?’

‘Gave him a good hiding,’ lied Piso. ‘I’d say we cracked most of his ribs before we’d finished.’ Gaius stared at him, and Piso felt his pulse flutter. ‘And yours?’ he asked.

‘He’s dead. Happened on the first day.’

Gods above, thought Piso. He was glad when Vitellius stepped in. ‘A bad ’un, was he?’

‘One of the worst. The type who’d beat a man because one of his belt buckles wasn’t shiny, you know. The funny thing is, the fool could have got away. We hadn’t decided to kill him when it all started. I don’t think he really believed us when we told him that we were taking control of the camp and that he should clear off. He laughed in our faces. That riled us, but when he reached for his vine stick, well …’ Gaius’ eyes went out of focus for a moment, then he spat into the fire, making it hiss. ‘When we were done, he had more holes in him than a wine strainer. Good fucking riddance to him, that’s what I say.’

‘He’s no loss,’ said Piso, surprised to mean what he said. Life under such a centurion would be miserable beyond belief. Tullus wasn’t just a good leader, he decided – the man was fair too.

‘There were a few centurions like that in our legion,’ growled Vitellius. ‘They got short shrift.’

‘They say that at least twenty centurions have been killed, and one tribune. You heard that?’ asked Gaius.

‘Aye,’ Piso answered, adding for authenticity, ‘The figure varies a little, depending on who you’re talking to.’

‘And on how much wine the fucker has had,’ interjected Vitellius with a wink. ‘Some would have it that there isn’t an officer left alive for twenty miles, apart from those who made it into the principia.’

They all laughed.

‘Did you hear about the centurion from the Rapax?’ asked Gaius.

‘There have been so many stories,’ said Piso. ‘Which one are you talking about?’

‘The sewer rat who used to put lead in his men’s kit before a march so that their yokes weighed half as much again as normal.’

‘Men talk about him,’ said Vitellius with a realistic scowl. ‘A nasty piece of work.’

‘Not any more,’ revealed Gaius in triumph. ‘He went for a swim in the Rhenus on the first day – after his soldiers had tied a lead weight to each of his feet. It turned out that the bastard was a strong swimmer – he managed to stay afloat for an age. In the end, his men used him as target practice for their javelins.’

‘That’s a bad way to die,’ said Piso without thinking.

‘Sounds as if he deserved it, though,’ Vitellius put in.

‘He did. Him and the others.’

Piso was quick to mutter his agreement, but he wondered if he’d seen a flicker of distrust in Gaius’ eyes. He swallowed a last spoonful of porridge, and said in a regretful tone, ‘I don’t know about you, ’Tellius, but I need my bed. Gratitude once again, Gaius.’

Accepting their bowls with a nod, Gaius looked Piso up and down. ‘What legion are you in?’

‘The Twentieth,’ lied Piso, not knowing which legion was best to say.

‘Which cohort?’

The casual question fell with the speed and lethality of an incoming sling bullet. Gaius knew men in one cohort or another, Piso decided, perhaps several. He was trying to catch them out. If Piso named a cohort in which Gaius had friends, he and Vitellius would be denounced before the scrapings of porridge in their bowls had gone cold. ‘The Tenth,’ he answered, his tongue rasping off the dry roof of his mouth.

Gaius’ calculating expression eased into one of dissatisfaction. ‘I’ve got mates in the third and fourth.’

‘I might know them to see, but not to talk to,’ said Piso. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Aye,’ said Gaius sourly. He cast a look at his tent. ‘Marcus! Didn’t you say once that you knew some men in the Tenth Cohort of the Twentieth?’

‘One or two,’ came the reply.

Piso wanted to rage at the heavens. Why me? Why now? He cast a quick look at Vitellius. What should we do? he mouthed. If they ran, Gaius and his comrades would be on them like a pack of hounds on a lame hare. By staying, they ran the risk of being exposed as frauds, which would result in the same thing. They were caught between Hannibal and his army, and the deep blue sea, as Piso’s grandfather had been fond of saying. Screwed, in other words, he thought with supreme bitterness.

‘Get out here,’ called Gaius.

‘I’m having a nap,’ came the irritated reply.

‘It won’t take a moment,’ said Gaius, smiling at Piso, who was reminded of the jagged-edged teeth he’d seen once in the mouth of a shark, hauled up in a fisherman’s net.

‘All right, all right,’ grumbled Marcus.

‘You’re bound to know Marcus’ friends,’ said Gaius, putting down the bowls.

Piso nodded in what he hoped was an enthusiastic manner. I’m not fool enough to stand here and die, he decided. Vitellius’ stiff-legged posture, like a male dog facing up to another, seemed to say the same thing. Cut down Gaius and they could be thirty paces away before Marcus emerged, or any of Gaius’ other tent mates reacted. Duck down that avenue and they stood a decent chance of losing themselves among the tent lines, from where they could trace a path back to the principia.

The option was fraught with risk. Failure to kill Gaius would result in a sword fight here, against overwhelming odds. The guy ropes holding up the tents were difficult to wend past at a walk, never mind a sprint. One trip, and either he or Vitellius would have a snapped ankle – the prelude to a far nastier fate. The legionaries they’d meet during their flight – of which there would be many – might obstruct their path, or even attack them. Scaling the rampart at the principia would render them as helpless as babes.

Hannibal or the sea? Piso wondered, pulse hammering, mouth bone dry. The sea or Hannibal?

‘Stop him!’

Every head turned towards the cry, which had originated further up the avenue. The distinctive sound of hobnails pounding off the earth came next.

‘Halt that officer! He’s making for the principia!’

Like every man within earshot, Gaius’ attention had moved, in his case away from Piso and Vitellius. Piso was about to suggest, sotto voce, that they make a run for it, but the sight of scores of legionaries charging towards them put paid to that idea. If Gaius denounced them, as he would, half the mob could easily split away from their prey – a lone officer – to pursue him and Vitellius.

They had to remain where they were, and as Vitellius tugged out his sword, Piso realised with horror that he had to copy the move. Not to do so would reveal his loyalty more truly than a wrong answer to any of Gaius’ probing questions.

‘With me, brothers,’ roared Gaius, moving to the middle of the avenue. ‘We can’t let the cocksucker escape!’

Piso took up a position to Gaius’ right – which brought him closer to the tent lines opposite. Vitellius did likewise. Gaius’ comrades, with Marcus among them presumably, soon joined them, swords and shields in hand. So too did a dozen other legionaries from their unit. It took no time to form a solid line across the avenue. Piso’s palms grew sweaty as he saw that the officer – a centurion, from the look of his phalerae and other decorations – was aimed straight for him. Was he going to have to murder a man to save his own skin? Piso didn’t know if he could, but the bloodlust-filled faces swarming behind the terrified centurion were a strong persuader.

In twenty paces, he would have to decide.

Eighteen.

‘Come on, you maggot,’ shouted Gaius, neck veins bulging. ‘There’s no way through for you here.’

Sixteen.

Bile stung the back of Piso’s throat. He swallowed it down, gripped his sword until his fist hurt.

Fourteen.

‘Gut him!’ screamed one of the centurion’s pursuers. ‘He murdered the sentry outside his tent!’

An animal roar went up from Gaius and the rest. Vitellius’ voice joined in, and Piso was ashamed to hear his own too. The centurion was so close now that he could make out the scars left on the man’s cheeks by the pox, the sweat beading his brow and even the colour of his eyes – slate grey.

Eight steps, and Piso tensed. He would stab the centurion if he had to. The man’s death was certain – why add his own, and possibly that of Vitellius, to the ugly mixture?

The centurion had conquered his fear – or at least made peace with it. Slowing his pace, he dropped a shoulder towards Piso and readied his right arm, which held a bloodied gladius.

Crushing panic suffused Piso’s every pore. Chances were he was going to die in the next few heartbeats. Like the centurion, he had no shield, which made sliding a blade into him that much easier.

‘Die, you filth!’ bawled Gaius, darting forward.

Too late, the centurion’s gaze moved from Piso. Too slow, he tried to twist and face the new threat. His eyes widened with shock, then fear, then pain as Gaius’ sword rammed deep into his groin. A cracked wail left his lips and there was a thump as, carried forward by their momentum, the two men collided, chest to chest. Gaius delivered a savage head-butt, and blood spurted from the centurion’s smashed nose.

Gaius gripped the centurion’s shoulder with his left hand, steadying him so that he could drive his blade even deeper. ‘How d’you like that, you mongrel?’

The answer was a low, awful moan. The sound of a man in mortal agony. It had the same effect as a trussed-up criminal revealed in the arena to a pride of starving lions. Legionaries drove in from every side, their sword points searching for a home in the centurion’s flesh. Eight, ten, twelve wounds blossomed on his neck, arms and legs.

Struck rigid, Piso watched in horror.

‘Let’s go!’ Vitellius’ breath was hot in his ear.

Like a drunk waking, sore-headed, in an alley, Piso came back to life. He stared at Vitellius. ‘Eh?’

‘They’ll kill us next. Come on.’ Vitellius took his right wrist in a grip of iron.

With shame scourging every part of him, Piso turned and ran.