Hunting the Eagles

by Ben Kane

  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.

  Chapter XXII

  SEVERAL DAYS HAD passed, and Tullus was standing in warm, late-afternoon sunshine outside Germanicus’ vast command tent. A summons to attend his general ‘at his earliest pleasure’ – delivered a short time before – had allowed scant opportunity for his servant Ambiorix to polish his helmet, phalerae and belts. For all that they were on campaign, not in barracks, standards had to be maintained.

  Tullus cast a critical eye over himself, and sighed. Old Ambiorix, stiff-fingered and still resentful at having to do what Degmar had done for years, was no longer capable of putting a parade-standard shine on equipment, but there was nothing Tullus could do about it now. Putting the state of his kit from his mind, he wondered yet again what Germanicus wanted with him.

  The command tent was a busy place – a double century of legionaries stood guard around its perimeter, and there was a constant flow in and out of officers, slaves and messengers. Tullus wasn’t the only one waiting – ahead of him were three others: Tubero, an auxiliary officer and a portly, balding merchant. It was no surprise to Tullus that Tubero ignored everyone else – that was how most high-ranking officers behaved. For Tullus’ own part, he didn’t want to talk to the auxiliary, who looked to be a Ubii warrior. Apart from Degmar and, to some extent, Flavus, Tullus’ view of Germans had been forever tarnished by the ambush in the forest. As for the merchant – he looked like so many of his kind: greasy-smiled, rotten-toothed, and like to sell his own mother if it earned him a coin.

  If Tullus were to have a conversation with anyone present, it would be with the more senior officer in charge of the guards – a solid-looking centurion, whom he knew by sight. The centurion was busy checking on his men, however, and dealing with those entering the tent. Tullus shifted the strap of his baldric a fraction so it didn’t pinch the skin at the base of his neck, and thought, I can talk to him later. For now, I can just enjoy the sunshine, and think.

  With luck, Germanicus would reveal something of his plans. The campaign had stalled, and Tullus was chafing to get back into action. The recovery of the Nineteenth’s eagle had stoked the old fires inside him – every night, his dreams were of finding his old legion’s golden standard, and of killing Arminius. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to say that the campaign had stalled, Tullus decided. An army the size of Germanicus’ current one – more than forty-five thousand men, together with many hundreds of horses and mules – required the most enormous quantity of food daily. Large raiding parties of legionaries and auxiliaries had stripped the surrounding countryside of livestock and stored grain, and still it was insufficient.

  Wary of being attacked by Arminius and his allies without enough supplies for a retreat, Germanicus had had his troops set up a temporary encampment on the banks of the River Lupia. This waterway led west, past the burned-out forts of Aliso and others, to the Rhenus and the empire’s frontier. Messengers had been sent to Vetera ahead of their arrival at the camp, carrying orders to despatch grain barges
with all haste. Although some had reached the camp, there were not yet enough supplies for the army to continue its eastward march.

  Tullus’ eagerness to move on wasn’t echoed by the ordinary soldiers. He couldn’t blame them. While there hadn’t been much fighting, or many casualties, they were deep in enemy territory. Secure from attack in the huge encampment, the legionaries had been able to let down their guard, even if there weren’t the rations they’d have liked. Strict as ever, Tullus hadn’t let his men get complacent – each century in the cohort had to train or march for at least half of every day. ‘You’re not in barracks, you pieces of shit,’ he told them as they stumbled, yawning, from their tents at dawn. ‘Every man, woman and child for a hundred miles wants us dead. If you’re not at the top of your game every moment of every day, some motherless sheep-humper will nail your head to a tree.’

  HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!

  Just like that, the barritus sounded in Tullus’ head. His ears rang with his men’s screams, the rushing sound of inward-flying spears and the crack of releasing slingshots. Rain sheeted in from the black clouds lowering overhead, and he could feel the gritty, blood-soaked mud working its way between his toes. Another legionary went down, struck by an enemy spear. Fenestela was bawling orders to close that fucking gap, and Tullus could hear his own voice, cracked and raw-throated, telling his soldiers to stand firm. ‘Hold the line, or we’re all dead men!’

  ‘Centurion?’

  Tullus wiped a hand across his eyes, and was grateful, despite his earlier scorn, to see the merchant, sweaty-faced and tunic-stained, before him rather than a spear-wielding warrior. Yet the man was so repulsive, he couldn’t help barking, ‘What?’

  ‘Are you well, sir?’

  ‘I am, curse you. Why?’ Tullus shot a look at Tubero and the auxiliary officer, who were next nearest. They didn’t appear to have noticed anything untoward, which was an immense relief. He could imagine the type of comment Tubero in particular would make.

  The merchant stepped back, his smile fading. ‘You were muttering to yourself.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Tullus gave the man his best centurion’s stare, and was pleased when he moved further away. Tullus again fell to brooding about the battle. They were so close to where it had taken place. He didn’t have a map, and had only hazy memories of the countryside that Degmar had guided him through on their way to Aliso, but Tullus had recognised a number of landmarks during the previous days’ training marches. The scouts had also reported that the battlefield lay nearby. The close proximity of the bones of so many men Tullus had known wasn’t helping his sleep either, if truth be told. His scalp prickled. Did Germanicus want to hear his account of the ambush again? Perhaps—

  ‘Senior Centurion Tullus!’ An imperious-faced staff officer stood at the tent’s main entrance. He called again, ‘Senior Centurion Tullus!’

  Tullus lifted a hand. ‘That would be me, sir.’

  ‘The imperial governor is waiting.’

  Used to being passed over in favour of citizens, the auxiliary’s expression remained impassive, but the merchant let out a resigned sigh. Passing an irate Tubero, Tullus kept a straight face. Inside, he was roaring with laughter. Screw you, you whoreson, he thought. Reaching the staff officer, Tullus saluted. ‘Ready, sir.’

  ‘There must be some mistake!’

  Tubero’s screech made the staff officer turn. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I am a legate!’ Tubero cried. ‘This man is only a centurion.’

  ‘A senior centurion, sir,’ Tullus corrected in the politest of voices, revelling in how his comment made Tubero’s flush deepen.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said the staff officer to Tubero. ‘The governor is aware that you are here. He has ordered that Tullus attend him.’

  Tubero’s mouth, which had been open, snapped shut.

  ‘Have you any message for the governor, sir?’ asked the staff officer in a solicitous tone.

  ‘I—’ began Tubero, and hesitated. A heartbeat later, he muttered, ‘I will wait.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’ The staff officer saluted before regarding Tullus, who could have sworn he raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘These senior officers.’ Then he inclined his head. ‘Follow me, centurion.’

  Tullus shot a look at Tubero, but he was glaring into the distance. Tullus’ pleasure wasn’t even a little lessened.

  The staff officer led him through a spacious, well-appointed antechamber in which a great number of clerks sat writing at desks. Slaves hovered about in the background, waiting to be given errands. No one paid any notice to Tullus, or his guide. The next two partitioned areas were similar grand workspaces for the staff officer and his colleagues. Here Tullus attracted some curious looks, which made him wonder again what Germanicus had in store for him.

  ‘You were at the Saltus Teutoburgiensis, I heard,’ said the staff officer, as if he’d been reading Tullus’ mind. There was respect in his voice, unlike most of those who’d commented in the years since. ‘You got some of your soldiers out.’

  Old bitterness washed over Tullus. ‘Not enough of them.’

  ‘You did more than anyone I’ve heard of. Even Tubero only saved eight or nine men.’

  Tullus held back a furious rebuttal – it had been an optio of the Seventeenth who’d rescued Tubero and the soldiers – with a savage bite to the inside of his cheek. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, so he grunted rather than speak a reply.

  The staff officer hadn’t noticed. ‘Was it as bad as they say?’

  ‘Ten times worse,’ grated Tullus.

  ‘It will be an honour to visit the place,’ said the staff officer, adding, ‘I don’t hold with those who say it’ll bring bad luck upon us. Even if it’s years late, our dead deserve to be buried.’

  This unexpected revelation had Tullus still struggling for a reply when they came to a halt before a final partition. A pair of impassive-faced bodyguards stood before it. Both looked as solid as granite.

  ‘Senior Centurion Tullus, Seventh Cohort of the Fifth, to see the governor,’ announced the staff officer.

  The bodyguards’ eyes roamed up and down Tullus. One of them made a non-committal noise that could have meant anything from ‘Yes, sir’ to ‘I don’t give a shit’ before he vanished within. Tullus was used to this reaction from very senior officers’ guards, but he had never liked it. When the second man focused on him again, Tullus returned the stare with a flinty one of his own. Old I might be, compared to you, but I’d still give you a run for your money, you big pile of shit, he thought.

  ‘The governor will see you now.’ The first bodyguard had returned. He held aside the curtain.

  The staff officer indicated Tullus should enter.

  Tullus felt as nervous as he had when Germanicus had recognised him at Tiberius’ triumph. Eyes fixed ahead, he stamped in the way he did on the parade ground: lifting his legs with his shoulders back and chest out. He came to attention before Germanicus, who was sitting behind a rosewood desk with a silver-inlaid top. Documents were piled in front of him; an inkwell and a simple iron stylus sat by his right hand. He looked older, and more tired, than Tullus had ever seen him, but the air of command was still there in his eyes and the firm set of his chin.

  ‘Senior Centurion Tullus.’ His tone was warm.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘No one is to disturb us,’ Germanicus said to the bodyguard. ‘At ease, Tullus. Have a seat.’

  ‘My mail, on the wood, sir,’ protested Tullus. The steel rings scratched anything they touched.

  ‘Sit,’ ordered Germanicus. ‘The chair is unimportant.’

  The ebony chair looked as if it had cost a small fortune, but Tullus wasn’t about to argue with one of the most powerful men in the empire. Gripping his scabbard so it didn’t get caught behind him, he sat. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Germanicus waved at the jug on the dresser to his right. ‘Wine?’

  Tullus would have declined – even though he’d met Germanicus a number o
f times, he wanted his wits about him – but the staff officer’s words had set his stomach to roiling. ‘I will, sir. Thank you.’ His discomfort was added to as Germanicus rose and picked up the jug. ‘Allow me, sir,’ Tullus said, half standing.

  Germanicus laughed. ‘Sit. I’m well able to pour wine.’

  Discomfited, Tullus watched as Germanicus filled two elegant blue glasses, handing one to Tullus and keeping one for himself.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tullus, admiring the outer surface of his glass, which was decorated with sparring gladiators.

  ‘A nice piece, eh?’

  ‘The likenesses are excellent, sir.’

  ‘So they should be, the price they cost each.’ Germanicus’ eyebrows rose as Tullus’ hold on his glass became even more delicate. ‘Drink, centurion, and don’t worry about the glass.’

  Reassured, Tullus tried a sip. The wine was perhaps the finest he’d ever had – deep-flavoured, dry and earthy, with echoes of roses and truffles.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Germanicus’ face was amused.

  ‘Is it that obvious, sir?’

  ‘You look like a man dying of thirst.’

  ‘I have never tasted better, sir.’ Tullus set the vessel down.

  ‘Drink, man, drink! You’ve earned it.’ Germanicus took a swallow from his own glass.

  Tullus relished his second mouthful even more than the first. ‘Delicious, sir.’

  Germanicus seemed satisfied. ‘You’ve seen the Nineteenth’s eagle?’

  ‘I paid my respects at the shrine in the headquarters, sir.’ Wanting privacy, Tullus had lingered long after the initial rush of senior officers. Scratched, its original staff broken, and missing several lightning bolts, the eagle had still exuded a palpable majesty. Once alone, it hadn’t taken long for his grief to bubble to the surface. On his knees, Tullus had wept. He had cried for the dead soldiers of his century. For those of his cohort, and the entire Eighteenth. For the rest of Varus’ army. For his legion’s lost eagle. For Artio’s mother and even for poor, misguided Varus. For the shame of it all. He had even wept for himself – that he had survived when so many had not. That he had failed his men during the ambush by not saving more of them. Maybe I should have died there, Tullus thought, not for the first time.