by Ben Kane
‘Is anyone inside?’ asked Tullus, peering in. It was often impossible, but unspoken protocol dictated that praying soldiers should be left alone within the sacred space.
‘You’re in luck, sir. The aquilifer has just left.’ The soldier whose job it was to carry the eagle checked on the standard once daily.
Pleased to have the place to himself, Tullus walked inside. Light, cast by a multitude of well-placed oil lamps, glittered off the stuccoed walls and the ceiling, and reflected off gold and silver emblems – images of the emperor, discs, human hands, spear tips, laurel wreaths – on the dozens of standards that were propped up against the back wall. To the left and right of the standards were the embroidered cloth banners used by detachments from the legion, and the imposing cavalry standards. In the centre of all, with a space on either side to indicate its status, the legion’s eagle had been placed in a special rosewood stand. A physical embodiment of everything that was noble about the Eighteenth, it was an awe-inspiring sight.
Compared to most, Tullus was not superstitious; much of the time, he didn’t place a lot of faith in the gods either. In this room, he felt different. A sense of reverence fell over him now, as it did with each visit. The deep silence helped – no one spoke in the shrine unless there was great need – and so too did the dazzling light cast by the abundant precious metal on display. The standard of a man’s century and his cohort were also causes for pride, as were the battle awards affixed to their staffs. Yet the main reason for Tullus to bow, and for the hairs to stand on his neck, was the overwhelming sense of majesty emitted by the eagle.
Cast from solid gold, and larger than a man could hold in both hands, the eagle was depicted lying forward on its breast. A golden wreath encircled its almost-touching wings, which were raised straight up behind its body. Its open beak and piercing stare gave off a real sense of arrogance. I know my purpose, and what I represent, it seemed to say. Do you, Tullus? Will you follow me, even unto death? Will you protect me at all costs?
I will, he thought, closing his eyes, as I would have done since the first day I enlisted. I live only to honour you, and my legion. I swear this by every god in the pantheon.
Tullus’ heart thudded in his chest, ten, twenty, fifty times. There was no answer from the eagle. There never was, but a gradual sense of acceptance stole over him, as if his promise had been received, as if the eagle would watch over him on the impending patrol. He looked up.
You are a true soldier of the Eighteenth, the eagle’s eyes seemed to say.
You are one of mine.
That was all Tullus ever wanted to be.
Tramp, tramp, tramp. Scchhhkkk-thunk. Scchhhkkk-thunk. The comforting sounds, of hobnails striking the road surface, and of mail shirts knocking off the back of shields, filled Tullus’ ears. He was riding alongside his century, which was positioned third along the column, a vantage point that allowed him to ascertain – should he need to – what was going on at the front and back, and to either side. Separated by strips of cultivation, German longhouses dotted the landscape. Boys stood watch over small groups of sheep and cattle. At the edge of a copse, a dozen bare-chested men toiled together, felling trees.
This was the second day of their patrol, and they were nearing Aliso. Things had gone well thus far. From the start, the new tribune Tubero had been as keen as a leashed hunting dog with the scent of game in its nostrils, but he had listened – albeit with reluctance – to Tullus’ advice. Moreover, he had followed it, which had been a relief to Tullus. Varus had sent a note on the eve of their departure, ordering Tullus to ensure that ‘nothing untoward’ happened while they were gone. Despite Tubero’s seniority, there was no doubt on whose shoulders the responsibility for the patrol fell.
Tullus didn’t know where Tubero was at that exact moment. Although that meant he had no one watching him, that the potential for trouble existed, oddly Tullus did not care. There was something about Tubero that ruffled his feathers the wrong way. He couldn’t decide if it was the tribune’s condescending manner or the faint air of disbelief he exuded every time Tullus expressed an opinion – or whether it was something else altogether. When he wasn’t about, Tullus could feel less irritated, even if he then grew a little concerned about what Tubero might be up to. Don’t worry, he thought. The young cock’s only riding about as if he’s the emperor, impressing the natives with his finery while he makes derogatory comments about them under his breath.
After an uneventful first day, they had slept the night in a marching camp twenty miles from the Rhenus. Built during a long-since-forgotten campaign, it had been left in place for passing units to avail themselves of, and was popular among soldiers. Its solid earth ramparts and deep ditches meant an escape from their usual obligation of constructing a camp at the end of a day’s march. These lighter duties, and an uninterrupted night’s sleep, had ensured that the fourteen miles to Aliso had sped by. Using the regular stone markers at the side of the road, Tullus reckoned that they were exceeding four miles an hour. Being able to maintain that speed was expected of legionaries, but it wasn’t often insisted upon, because it wore men out fast. Yet when high spirits drove them to act in such a manner, as it was right now, Tullus wasn’t one to stand in their way.
He wouldn’t have admitted it to a soul apart from Fenestela, but the fast pace made him grateful for his mount. Tullus had taken to riding of recent times, because of his aching back and creaking joints. He would have coped today, but he’d have paid for it later. Most of his legionaries were fifteen years younger than he, or more.
Horse or no, Tullus was looking forward to reaching Aliso. Like the marching camp they had stayed in, it was favoured among legionaries, because of its size, and empty barracks. It too had been constructed during previous campaigns and was large enough to house a legion, but the usual garrison nowadays comprised a single cohort and two turmae of cavalry. Even a second cohort, the troops assigned to Lucius Caedicius, the newly arrived camp prefect, wouldn’t come close to filling the rows and rows of timbered barrack blocks. In Aliso, thought Tullus with anticipation, everyone could expect a bed for the night, and a solid roof over his head. Those small luxuries were to be appreciated, for on many patrols such things were a rarity.
‘Look out, brothers. Here comes the senior tribune again,’ announced a legionary several ranks in front.
Tullus felt a dart of irritation at the resulting straightening of backs, shifting of yokes and throwing back of shoulders. Tubero had been issuing reprimands of one kind or another at soldiers throughout the patrol, but he hadn’t commented on Tullus’ century. Yet. If it happened now, Tullus wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold his tongue.
He watched as Tubero came cantering down the road, his mount’s hooves throwing up little puffs of dust. His entourage of two staff officers and a scribe followed close behind. It was satisfying that he said nothing about Tullus’ legionaries.
Tubero slowed up at last. ‘Centurion.’
‘Sir. See anything of interest?’
‘We rode as far as the fort. It’s an impressive structure, and built in a good spot. It’s near the River Lupia, but high enough above it to have a range of vision all around.’
‘You’ve got the right of it there, sir,’ said Tullus, thinking a man would have to be blind not to notice its strength of position. ‘They’re expecting us then?’
‘I told the sentry to inform Lucius Caedicius of our imminent arrival.’ He cast an impatient eye at the ranks of passing legionaries, and his nostrils flared in the way that so annoyed Tullus. ‘That is, if these shirkers can be bothered to march at a respectable speed.’
Tullus had to bite his lip before he answered. ‘They’re covering more than four miles an hour, sir.’
‘Does the Eighteenth not pride itself on the quality of its soldiers?’
You pompous little prick, thought Tullus. ‘It does, sir.’
‘Then why aren’t they doing more than that, centurion?’
‘Because I haven’t ask
ed them to, sir,’ replied Tullus. He didn’t need to add, ‘I’m the one who’s really in charge here.’ Even as Tubero’s mouth opened in outrage, Tullus interrupted, so only the tribune could hear. ‘It’s two miles and more to Aliso still. We’re on a routine patrol, sir, carrying non-urgent messages from Varus. There’s no need to push them any harder. Imagine – the gods forbid – that an emergency were to arise and they were too tired to march off in response. I’d never forgive myself. Would you, sir?’
Tubero gave Tullus a petulant look. ‘I suppose not. Leave them be then.’
‘Wise words, sir,’ said Tullus in a diplomatic tone.
An angry glance from Tubero. ‘There’s no reason why I should linger here. I’ll return to the camp and give Varus’ letters to Caedicius.’
‘Very good, sir,’ replied Tullus. Good riddance.
The legionary Marcus Piso and the seven others in his contubernium had been allocated a room at the far end of the barracks’ corridor. It was furthest from the centurion Tullus’ quarters, which pleased everyone. They wouldn’t escape his scrutiny, but there would be some warning of his approach. Piso, a tall man, came into the room last, having been the final member of the group to enter the building, which was situated some distance from Aliso’s main gate. He dumped his weapons in the tiny room opposite their bedchamber and went to find a bed. To his annoyance, the only spot that didn’t already have a soldier or some equipment on it was a top bunk. He rolled his eyes, and clambered up the two rungs to his bed. In the process, he knocked his head against the low ceiling, hard. Rolling on to the mattress, he groaned. ‘Jupiter’s sweaty arse crack.’
‘Take off your armour first, stupid,’ said one of his tent mates from the opposite bunk.
‘I wanted to rest my legs for a moment,’ Piso complained.
‘You’re tired after that short march?’ asked Vitellius, the man below him. He was an acerbic individual whom Piso didn’t like much, not least because Vitellius made him feel that he wasn’t yet part of the contubernium, or even, he’d said once, a real soldier.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Piso, bristling. ‘The idea of a bed was appealing, that’s all.’
‘It is to me too,’ came the reply. ‘But I thought to lose my mail shirt before I lay down.’
Piso rubbed the swelling lump on the top of his skull. ‘That was about the only part of me that didn’t hurt.’
‘Always complaining, aren’t you?’ jibed Vitellius.
Afer, one of four other veterans in the contubernium, and the one who’d been most decent to Piso since his arrival a few months before, weighed in. ‘That’s a little rich coming from you, Vitellius. I remember the time you caught crabs in Vetera’s cheapest brothel. You spent months moaning about it, and keeping us awake with your scratching.’
The laughter drowned out Vitellius’ sour rejoinder, and Piso gave Afer a grateful look. Afer, a hairy barrel of a man from one of the roughest parts of Mutina, winked back. Piso felt a rush of gratitude. He used the diversion of the general hilarity to get down from the bunk and return to the equipment store. He’d undone his belt and was attempting, without success, to shuck the mail shirt up on to his shoulders – from there it was easy to take off – when he sensed someone behind him. Thinking it was Vitellius, come to mock him further, he wheeled with bunched fists.
‘Easy, brother,’ said Afer, raising his hands.
‘Sorry. I thought it was—’
‘I know. Don’t mind Vitellius. He’s a bitter prick, but when it comes to a fight, he’s a good man to have beside you.’ Afer smiled at Piso’s disbelief. ‘It’s true. He saved my skin in Illyricum once when I’d already seen the ferryman poling his way across the Styx to pick me up. Killed two tribesmen, he did, and got himself wounded in the process. And before you ask, it wasn’t just because I was an old comrade. I’ve seen him do the same for new lads too. If you’re in his contubernium, he looks out for you, same as we all do. He’s just got an interesting sense of humour.’
‘Interesting? Ha!’
‘Here.’ Afer held out his hands, and Piso heaved his shirt up again. This time, Afer was there to grab it and heave it up to the sweet spot, just below his shoulders. With a groan, Piso brought it up over his head. He was ready for the balance of its weight to shift, and moved his feet back as it spilled on to the floor with a loud thunk. ‘Thanks.’
Afer was halfway back to the bunkroom. ‘Got any wine?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘I wish.’
‘Go and find some, eh?’
There was a loud chorus of agreement from the rest.
Piso wanted to lie down for a bit, but Afer’s intervention had meant a lot. He tested the weight of the purse that hung from his belt and judged it held enough coinage to buy wine for them all. It had been a good idea to be careful with the advance he’d been given upon enlistment – the next payday wasn’t for some time. ‘I will,’ he said, catching the empty leather skin that Afer flung out to him, ‘but it won’t be my turn again until each of you shower of shits has bought some too.’
Ignoring the whistles and insults that followed, he strapped on his belt, adjusted his tunic, checked that his dagger was in place. The abuse was to be expected. Being in the army wasn’t that different to spending his entire time with a group of his boyhood friends in northern Italy. Checking that Tullus was nowhere in sight – he wasn’t doing anything wrong, but the centurion always managed to find a fault of some kind with his appearance or kit – Piso sloped out of the barracks door.
There were plenty of legionaries from the patrol about. Some were lighting fires to cook their evening meal. Others had kit to repair and were doing it outside, where the light was better. Two men were playing dice in the dirt, watched by their friends. A pair with more energy than most were wrestling together, grappling and trying to throw the other to the ground. Wagers were being made on which of them would go down first. Piso was tempted to watch, even to gamble, but his thirst won out. ‘Anyone found a place to buy wine?’ he asked.
‘Try the avenues around the garrison’s barracks,’ advised a legionary. ‘There’ll be someone flogging it around there.’
Muttering his thanks, Piso walked towards the main gate, where the resident soldiers lived. As he rounded the corner on to the via praetoria, an optio passed by. The man wasn’t from Piso’s unit; nonetheless, he averted his gaze and breathed easier when the officer had gone. Piso had always been a little clumsy, perhaps because he was so tall, but it had never mattered much until he had joined the army. Everything had to be done just so, and if it wasn’t, officers like Fenestela and Tullus let him know about it in no uncertain terms. Still, he seemed to be getting the hang of most things at last. Keeping his clothing and equipment clean and ready for use, wearing his uniform in the correct manner, marching in step and weapons training were all routine tasks now.
In the event, it didn’t take Piso long to find some wine. A white-haired Phoenician with deep brown skin – ‘The only one of my race to trade in Germania,’ he boasted at the top of his voice – was hawking an assortment of goods from a portable stall near the camp’s entrance. He had fish sauce and olive oil in little pots, aromatic herbs, and exotic spices wrapped in twists of fabric – black pepper, coriander and cumin. What he was selling most of, however, was wine. Piso listened as the Phoenician recommended half a dozen vintages, all of which cost more than he could afford, before plumping for a skinful of the cheapest variety. Even that cost a deal more than it did in Vetera, but when he protested, the Phoenician gave an eloquent shrug. ‘The stuff didn’t walk here on its own. Travel costs, you know. Do you see anyone else offering wine of any quality, let alone the divine flavours I have?’
Piso snorted. The wine’s resemblance to pure vinegar was astonishing, but the merchant was right. There was no one else to buy the stuff from – this centrally, anyway. The rogue must have an arrangement with one of the garrison’s offers, he thought, handing over the coins.
‘Can I t
empt you to some pepper?’ The Phoenician swept a handful of the spice under Piso’s nose. His nostrils filled with the pungent, heady aroma that he hadn’t been able to afford for months.
‘Not this time.’
The pepper was withdrawn at once, as if he would steal it, and the Phoenician’s toothy smile shrank. ‘When you need it, my friend, I’ll be here.’
Piso headed for his barracks, trying and failing not to think about the wonderful foods that had been available in the neighbourhood where he’d grown up. Spiced lentils, smoked ham, fresh fish, breads of every type imaginable, pastries and sweetmeats, and a dozen times as many spices as the Phoenician had had. The signature dish of one local restaurant had been veal escalope with raisins – Piso had only been able to afford it once, but his mouth watered at the thought of it. Distracted by the fantasy, he didn’t see the burly legionary in his path. With a clash of heads, they collided. Piso stumbled back, clutching the throbbing lump on his skull; the other let out a string of oaths. ‘Clumsy bastard! Watch where you’re going!’
‘My apologies. I wasn’t looking.’ Piso’s heart sank as he saw that the soldier – one of the garrison – had two friends with him. As if on cue, they stepped to either side of their comrade, blocking the avenue.
‘Damn right, you weren’t,’ retorted the legionary. ‘You must have been thinking about your centurion shoving his cock up your arse.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Piso, wishing that Tullus were close enough to have heard. But he was nowhere to be seen. Neither were his tent mates, or any of his unit. ‘I said it was my fault. I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t care what you said, maggot.’ The legionary leered. ‘Me and my mates don’t like you. Walking around here like you own the damn place, buying up all the wine.’ Quick as lightning, he snatched the leather bag. Shaking it, he grinned. ‘It’s just been filled up, boys. Our luck’s in, eh?’
