Eagles at War

by Ben Kane

  ‘Give that back.’ Piso reached out, but the legionary tossed the skin to one of his friends. Piso turned to the man but, like bullies who’ve taken a child’s toy, he threw to the next one. ‘I paid for that,’ said Piso, his temper rising. ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘Regard it as payment for being such a fool.’ The big legionary spun on his heel with a chuckle, and Piso closed his eyes, wondering what to do. Trying to get the skin back would get him beaten up, but if he let the men walk away, his comrades – in particular Vitellius – would remind him of the humiliation for days to come.

  He waited until the trio had all turned away before he charged. Arms outstretched, he managed to knock the legionary’s comrades aside, but in the process slammed into the man’s back faster than he’d meant to. Down they both went, Piso landing on top. There was an oomph of pain from beneath him. Surprised and relieved that he hadn’t been injured, Piso grabbed the skin and clambered to his feet. One of the soldiers that he’d pushed sideways swung a wild punch; Piso ducked and it whistled over his head. ‘Get him! Get the whoreson!’ roared the big legionary from the ground.

  He couldn’t hang about. Piso darted forward, in the direction of his barracks. Eyes fixed on the middle distance, he didn’t see the foot that had been stuck in his path. The dirt came up to meet him with sickening speed. His left shoulder was the first to hit it; next was the side of his face. Starbursts of agony went off in his brain. Half-stunned, he lay helpless as his enemies closed in. Piso knew the pain would be bad, but the shock of the first studded sandal connecting with his head was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Another followed, and then it was kick after kick to the ribs and belly. Nausea swamped him, and he retched.

  ‘Beat the shit out of the maggot, but do it quick,’ said the man he’d walked into. ‘Otherwise an officer will catch us.’

  ‘Or I will,’ said a voice that Piso, confused, couldn’t quite place.

  ‘One of his mates, are you? Fuck off, or we’ll give you a hammering as well,’ the big legionary retorted.

  ‘Will you now?’ The speaker laughed. ‘Piso? Can you get up?’

  The urgency in his saviour’s voice penetrated the fog encasing Piso’s brain. With an effort, he sat up, then stood. Dumbfounded, he stared at Vitellius, who was facing up, alone, to the three legionaries. The dagger in his hand explained their hesitancy; only one of them, the weediest-looking, was armed. Piso picked up the wine skin – he wasn’t going to leave that behind – and scrambled away from his assailants, to Vitellius’ side.

  ‘Draw your blade,’ Vitellius hissed.

  Piso obeyed.

  ‘Listen, you sewer rats! Me and my friend are going to walk away, with our wine. You are going to stay put, unless you want to end your days with a knife in your belly.’ Vitellius edged a step backward and, taking the hint, so did Piso.

  The big legionary glanced at his friends. ‘Come on! We can take them.’

  ‘Off you go,’ the weedy one said. ‘I’m not dying for a skin of wine.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said the third soldier.

  ‘Screw the both of you!’ shouted the big legionary at Piso and Vitellius. ‘Don’t let me catch either of you round here again, or you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Fuck you too.’ Vitellius shuffled backwards a dozen steps and more, all the while facing the legionaries. Piso did the same, waves of relief washing over him. A little further, and they’d be safe.

  A moment later, the three made obscene gestures and began walking in the opposite direction.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Vitellius.

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied Piso, even as the light-headedness took hold. His vision blurred, and he swayed.

  Vitellius drew one of Piso’s arms over his shoulder and held it tight. ‘Lean on me, brother. Those bastards won’t come back. We can take it slowly to the barracks. We’ll have a nip of wine in a bit to give us some strength, eh?’

  It hurt to laugh, but Piso did so anyway. ‘That sounds good. Were you looking for me?’

  ‘Aye. You were taking so long that we were dying of thirst. I said I’d find you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. My thanks, Vitellius.’

  Vitellius patted his hand. ‘You’re in my contubernium, and I’m in yours. We might hurl shit at one another, but we look after our own.’

  At this, the pain that had been battering Piso’s body faded a little into the background.

  For the first time, he felt like a real legionary.

  V

  EVENING HAD FALLEN over Aliso. The legionaries of Tullus’ cohort had been allocated quarters some time since. While the five other centurions ate with the camp’s officers, he and Tubero had been invited to dine with the camp prefect Caedicius and the fort’s usual commander, Granius Marcianus, in the rundown praetorium. Caedicius’ presence here was to ensure that the summer needs of Varus’ army, which would pass the camp on its outward and return marches, were met. Tubero’s behaviour thus far had been exemplary. After several cups of wine, Tullus was beginning to think that perhaps he was just another eager young officer keen to prove himself, and out to make an impression.

  Their surroundings might have seen better days, but every part of the large building was still grander than Tullus’ set of rooms at Vetera. The mosaic floors throughout wouldn’t have been out of place in an equestrian’s house in Italy. A fountain pattered in the central courtyard, and the mythical scenes painted on the walls of the larger chambers were as fine as he’d seen in any camp on the Rhenus. Caedicius and Marcianus were men who didn’t stand on ceremony, however. The couches upon which the previous occupant’s guests would have reclined had been stacked at the far end of the dining room, and a plain but serviceable table and set of chairs set up in their place. Tubero’s face had registered surprise at the informal arrangement, but he’d had the wit to remain silent. The primus pilus, or chief centurion of the Eighteenth for many years, Caedicius was now a camp prefect. Technically, Tubero outranked him, but in reality it was a different thing. Not that Caedicius made a thing of that either. He had ushered them to the table as any host might and poured each man wine with his own hands, while Marcianus had passed round the cups.

  The olives that they’d had to start hadn’t been the freshest, but this far from Italy that was unsurprising, thought Tullus. The local cheese – and the wine, which was excellent – had more than compensated for their lack of flavour. So too had the leg of wild boar, roasted whole and served with garlic and rosemary. Silence had fallen over the table as the four officers set upon it.

  Caedicius mopped up some of the juices on his plate with a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. After swallowing, he sighed. ‘Gods, but that tastes good.’ He reached out and pulled another strip of skin from the joint. ‘The crackling is always the best bit, eh?’

  ‘Indeed it is, sir,’ said Marcianus.

  ‘It’s my favourite too, sir,’ said Tullus, helping himself to a piece.

  ‘The meat’s delicious,’ added Tubero.

  Caedicius chuckled. ‘Not to your taste, is it, tribune?’

  Tubero squirmed. ‘It’s a little gamey,’ he admitted.

  ‘Better get used to it. You’ll find precious few dormice this side of the river.’

  Marcianus laughed, and Tullus managed to bury his smile by swigging from his cup. ‘I’m not effete,’ said Tubero, the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘I don’t like dormice either.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Caedicius. ‘I’ve never been able to understand why people eat rodents. Snobbery is what it is, if you ask me. You might as well cook up a rat – there’d be more feeding in it.’ He eyed Tubero. ‘If not boar, what’s your choice of dish?’

  ‘I’m fond of fish. I haven’t tasted it yet, but I’m told that the salmon from the local rivers tastes wonderful.’

  ‘I’ll agree with you about that,’ said Caedicius, smiling. ‘The eels are good too. But enough of food. What news of Illyricum? Is it true that the war’s over?�
�� Everyone’s gaze switched at once to Tubero, most particularly that of Tullus, who had served there for more than a year.

  ‘It is, after three years. Word had just reached the capital as I was about to leave,’ said Tubero, pleased by the attention. ‘Tiberius and Germanicus vanquished the last rebels in Illyricum not two months since.’

  ‘Excellent news,’ declared Caedicius, raising his glass. ‘To the emperor!’

  Tullus echoed the toast, feeling a little disappointed that he hadn’t been there to see victory. More of him was glad that he had survived, however. Recovering from the injury that had sent him back to Vetera and his legion had taken the best part of six months.

  They all drank.

  ‘Augustus is said to be delighted,’ Tubero went on. ‘Rather than taking the customary title of Imperator, he is allowing Tiberius to use the honorific. Tiberius is also to celebrate a triumph upon his return to Rome.’

  ‘How times have changed,’ commented Caedicius in an undertone, winking at Tullus and Marcianus.

  Marcianus hid his mirth, but not well. Tullus was also amused, but he kept a neutral face before Tubero. He had no reason to think that the tribune was a spy sent by Rome, but when it came to the imperial family, it paid to watch one’s mouth. He wasn’t going to be the one who mentioned Augustus’ previous dislike of his adopted son Tiberius. In a memorable damning of his now heir, the emperor had once been heard to say, ‘Alas for the Roman people, to be ground by jaws that crunch so slowly.’ For his part, Tullus liked Tiberius. Although not the type he’d want to go drinking with, Tiberius was solid and reliable and, most important of all, a general who cared for his soldiers. ‘It’s excellent that Augustus is recognising him in that manner,’ said Tullus. ‘He is a most able commander.’ Tullus saw Tubero’s blank stare, and added, ‘Four years ago, not long after he’d been adopted by Augustus, he served as governor of Germania, and led our legions over the Rhenus for two campaigning seasons.’

  Tubero looked embarrassed. ‘Of course, of course, I remember.’

  ‘We marched as far as the River Albis, and overwintered in Germania,’ Tullus explained. ‘The year after that we would have crushed Maroboduus, but the Pannonian revolt put paid to that plan.’

  ‘Tiberius assembled ten legions, didn’t he?’ asked Tubero, his eyes glinting.

  ‘He did, sir. Four of them from this province. It was a grand sight,’ said Tullus, glancing at Caedicius. ‘Remember, sir?’

  ‘It stirred the blood, aye,’ growled Caedicius. ‘A damn shame that the campaign never happened. It was only five days until it began too!’

  ‘What does Varus plan for the summer?’ Tubero enquired of Caedicius. ‘Will we go as far as the River Albis, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Porta Westfalica is where you’ll make camp. Tullus?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard, yes, sir.’

  ‘Are the tribes in that area restless?’ Tubero’s eyes swung from Caedicius to Tullus, Marcianus and back again. ‘Is there any chance of fighting?’

  Caedicius laughed. ‘Quite the lion cub, aren’t you?’

  ‘This is what I’ve been hearing since we left camp, sir. He’s keen for action,’ said Tullus, adding for the sake of diplomacy, ‘which is a good sign in a new officer.’

  ‘It is,’ Caedicius concurred. Tubero looked pleased until he added, ‘You might be disappointed, however, tribune. As far as I’m aware, the tribes between here and the River Visurgis seem content. The army’s main duty will be to collect taxes, while Varus holds court sessions and settles petty disputes.’

  Aided by the wine perhaps, Tubero’s restraint fell away. ‘I didn’t come to Germania to listen to court cases!’

  Cheeky bastard, thought Tullus.

  ‘With respect, senior tribune, you’ll do as you’re ordered,’ barked Caedicius, all primus pilus once more. ‘Whatever the duty may be.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tubero, flushing. ‘My apologies.’

  Caedicius’ fierce expression eased. ‘If I’ve learned one thing in the army, Tubero, it’s to expect the unexpected. You must always be prepared to fight, even if it looks unlikely. That way, when it happens – and it will happen to you sometime – you’ll be ready.’

  ‘I’ll remember that. Thank you for your advice,’ said a chastened Tubero.

  Caedicius saluted him with his cup. ‘Old I may be, but I know a thing or two about war. As do we all, eh, Tullus? Marcianus?’

  ‘We’d be poor soldiers if we didn’t, sir,’ said Tullus with a smile.

  Marcianus chuckled before saying, ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, sir. The tribune might find this interesting too. One of my officers mentioned a trader who passed the camp today. The man was talking about some trouble caused by the Tencteri.’

  Tullus’ ears pricked up. Tencteri territory lay some distance to the south of Aliso, but was still close to the Rhenus.

  Caedicius frowned. ‘What did he say, Marcianus?’

  ‘It seems that a band of Tencteri has been cattle raiding among the Usipetes in the last ten days or so. According to the merchant, they started off on the fringes of the Usipetes’ lands, but they’ve grown bolder. A couple of men were killed during their latest raid, and there’s been talk of retaliatory attacks.’

  Tubero looked confused, so Tullus explained, ‘Cattle rustling is a perennial problem in Germania, tribune. It’s a badge of honour for young warriors to steal beasts from another tribe. In recent years, the chieftains have been quick to step in before things get out of hand, but that doesn’t always work. Sometimes our troops are needed to restore order.’

  Tubero looked like a small child who’d been handed a pastry. He glanced at Caedicius. ‘How far away is this happening?’

  ‘Too great a distance for us to consider investigating without permission,’ said Caedicius. ‘I will advise Varus of this development, and if the governor sees fit, a detachment of troops will be sent to investigate.’

  ‘Perhaps I could lead that unit,’ Tubero suggested.

  ‘Varus will be the man who decides what action will be taken, if any,’ answered Caedicius.

  Disappointment filled Tubero’s eyes again. Tullus felt for him. Officers with initiative were a valuable asset to a legion. ‘If Varus decides to send a patrol out, and you were to petition him for its command, he might grant your request, sir,’ he offered.

  ‘Let us hope so,’ said Tubero. He lifted his cup. ‘Fortuna grant that it is I who is sent to settle the dispute.’

  By the following morning, Tullus was regretting the late night he’d had. True to form, Caedicius had insisted that they keep drinking after the food had been cleared away. Marcianus, a pisshead of the first order, had been happy to obey, and Tubero had still been keen to impress, so Tullus’ protests had been in vain. His memory of the end of proceedings was hazy, but he was certain that the third watch had sounded as he fell into bed. The dawn trumpet, which sounded what seemed like moments later, had been most unwelcome.

  Dry-mouthed and sweating, he’d gone straight to the baths and jumped into the cold pool. After a short spell, he had moved to the hot room, and then back to the frigidarium. Somewhat revived, he had forced down a few mouthfuls of water and pulled on his armour before inspecting the cohort. Prompted by Fenestela and the other centurions, it had already formed up in the wide space between the walls and the barracks, ready to march back to Vetera. As he stalked the formation, three centuries wide and two deep, Tullus noted that some men looked worse for wear, but most seemed fit and ready. Given his own state, he decided to say nothing. The soldiers could be assessed as they marched. As long as everyone kept up, he could overlook a few hangovers.

  It was some consolation that when Tubero appeared – late – he was red-eyed and pale-faced. Tullus affected not to notice.

  Caedicius came to bid them farewell. To Tullus’ chagrin, he looked as spry as a man half his age who hadn’t touched a drop. ‘I’ll see you in the summer,’ he declared. ‘May the gods gu
ide all of our paths until then. Good luck, tribune.’

  Tubero’s response was more scowl than smile. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Ready, sir?’ asked Tullus of Tubero.

  There was a grim nod.

  ‘You have Caedicius’ letters for Varus?’

  ‘My staff officer has them.’

  ‘Very good, sir. With your permission, then?’

  A weak gesture from Tubero indicated that he should continue.

  Satisfaction filled Tullus. He’ll be as quiet as a mouse on the way back, he thought. He gave the order to turn about face, and to move out in turn after the tribune had led off. Tubero and his followers rode past the front ranks of the cohort, towards the gate. In neat ranks, the centuries began to march after, each falling into line behind the next, standard-bearers at the front, and their centurions riding alongside. Tullus’ soldiers were in first position, as before, but he did not join them yet. When the entire unit was moving, he saluted Caedicius. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, sir.’

  Caedicius chuckled. ‘You look as if a couple more hours under the blankets would have helped. As for Tubero, well, they don’t make them like they used to, do they?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, sir. Tubero too. The fresh air will clear our heads.’

  Caedicius inclined his head. ‘Farewell until next we meet, Tullus.’

  ‘Farewell, sir.’ Tullus urged his horse after the cohort, grateful once more that he did not have to walk.

  The morning passed without event. Practised at dealing with hangovers, Tullus drank often from the two water skins he was in the habit of carrying. When the inevitable piss stops started to become necessary, he slipped from his horse’s back and ignored the chorus of ribald comments that accompanied him down the bank off the road. In his mind, for soldiers to make fun of their commanding officer was acceptable in certain circumstances. If Julius Caesar had tolerated his soldiers chanting that the men of Rome should ‘watch their wives, the bald adulterer’s back home’, who was he to care if his troops were amused by the small size of his bladder? What mattered was that they respected him, and that they obeyed his orders – both of which they did.