by Ben Kane
‘Don’t stop.’ Metilius gave him a discreet shove in the back. ‘If you stand and gawp, someone will notice. Look purposeful, and we’re less likely to be stopped.’
Metilius was right, Piso decided, but he still felt like a criminal caught in the act. Head low, avoiding men’s gaze, he walked towards the great hall which faced the entrance. They skirted round a group of tribunes without being noticed. Various clerks gave them suspicious looks, but none issued a challenge. Everyone else has a reason to be here, Piso realised. He glanced around, eyes keen. If Tubero appeared, they had to take evasive action. His heart thumped as one of the legionaries sweeping the walkway spotted them, but rather than issue a challenge, the soldier shook his head as if to say ‘Madmen’. Trying to remain calm, Piso looked away.
Metilius drew close. ‘What are you going to say to the sentries outside the hall? And the ones outside the shrine?’ he whispered.
Now Piso wished the ground would open and swallow him up. Winning over the men at the entrance had been lucky, but expecting Fortuna’s help in getting past more sets of guards verged on the insane. ‘I don’t know yet,’ he hissed.
‘Better think of something fucking fast.’ Metilius fell back a pace, leaving Piso at the head of their little group.
Dry-mouthed, his stomach in knots, Piso kept going out of stubbornness. It was all he had left.
To his astonishment, Fortuna’s good mood continued. One of the two sentries by the massive gates to the main hall didn’t just know Piso – he owed him a decent sum. An inveterate gambler, the soldier had run out of coin during a recent long night spent at dice. Against his better judgement, Piso had given him credit. He couldn’t have been more glad at this moment.
‘Gaius,’ he said, lifting a hand. ‘We’re going to the shrine to pay our respects.’
Gaius was none too happy at this announcement. His gaze moved to his companion, then returned to Piso. ‘Who gave you permission?’
‘Let us through, and I’ll forget the coin due to me,’ said Piso in a low tone. ‘Refuse, and I’ll break your fucking legs next time we meet.’
Gaius’ mouth worked. ‘It’s all right. They’ve been sent here by their centurion,’ he said to his comrade. Throwing Piso a dark look, he stood aside, muttering, ‘Be quick!’
Piso didn’t need to be told twice. With a jerk of his head, he indicated that Metilius and the rest should follow.
Piso had been in the tile-floored hall on four-monthly paydays when the weather had been too severe to parade the soldiers outside, but a sense of awe still struck him as he entered. The massive rectangular chamber was dominated by a double set of great columns that ran off on either side. Imposing painted statues of the emperor’s family filled the spaces between, and a mighty effigy of Tiberius, larger than any other, occupied the floor in front of the doors. The shrine lay through a doorway midway along the back wall, and beneath it was the strongroom containing the legions’ monies. Surprised to have come this far, and needing to marshal his thoughts, Piso came to a halt before the likeness of Tiberius and bent his head, as if praying.
‘What did you say?’ demanded Metilius.
‘Never you mind,’ replied Piso, loath to reveal the simplicity of his success.
Metilius peered around the statue. ‘Whatever it was won’t work twice. The two sentries by the shrine look as if they’re on the watch for Arminius himself.’
Piso joined him, and his brief enjoyment vanished. The stern-faced guards seemed just the types to challenge six dishevelled soldiers. He and his companions couldn’t linger where they were without causing suspicion either – they had to act. Piso could almost hear Fortuna starting to cackle.
‘Piso!’ Dulcius’ voice.
Bile washed the back of Piso’s throat as he spied Tubero entering the hall behind them. Three staff officers followed. By force of will, Piso continued to pretend he was praying to the emperor. Relief filled him as Tubero entered an office to the left, but the mountainous problem facing them remained. Should they risk trying to enter the shrine, or skulk from the hall like beaten hounds? The second pathetic image stiffened Piso’s resolve. He faced his comrades. ‘It’s so close. We can’t leave now!’
The resounding silence that followed enraged Piso. ‘Yellow-livers!’ he hissed. ‘Are you with me?’
At last: reluctant nods, and mutters of ‘Aye’.
‘Follow me.’ Taking a deep breath, Piso rounded the statue of Tiberius and aimed straight for the sentries.
‘State your business.’ The challenge was issued at once.
‘Well met, brother,’ said Piso in his friendliest tone. He indicated his comrades. ‘We’re soldiers of the Fifth, like you. Many of us were also in the Eighteenth, under Varus. You’ll know our centurion, Tullus.’ Piso took heart from the sentries’ nods. ‘We’d like to pay our respects to the eagle.’
The older of the two sentries stuck out his jaw. ‘This is most irregular.’
Piso pulled a broad – and what he hoped was winning – smile. ‘Yet here we are.’
The sentry didn’t look amused. ‘None of you are officers.’
‘The eagle is as dear to us, the soldiers, as it is to any officer. Or dearer,’ added Piso, hoping to find solidarity with the sentry.
The sentry’s stern expression eased. ‘Maybe so, but I’ve never heard tell of ordinary footsloggers just sauntering into the shrine. You must have seen the number of top-rankers around, brother. If me and my mate get caught having let you in, we’d be fucked. Properly fucked. My advice is, get out of here before someone notices, or you’ll be for the same.’
Piso’s heart sank. He glanced at Metilius, whose shoulders went up and down in defeat. The others’ dejected expressions said the same thing. To overpower the sentries would be madness, and result in the most brutal punishment.
‘Tubero’s over there,’ said the sentry. ‘If you want to avoid him, skirt to the left of Tiberius’ statue.’
The taste of disappointment was bitter in Piso’s mouth. How typical of Fortuna to let him get this far, he thought, only to fall on his face at the last obstacle. ‘We tried,’ he said to Metilius. ‘That’s better than nothing.’
‘I suppose.’ Metilius sighed.
They turned to go, but to Piso’s horror, Tubero was walking in their direction. He didn’t seem aware of their presence, but that would soon change. Whether he recognised them or not would be immaterial: the man was such a disciplinarian that they’d be punished just for being in the hall.
‘Come on,’ whispered Piso, making for the other side of Tiberius’ statue. ‘Quick!’
Five rushed paces, and Piso collided with Tullus. Mortified, he jerked to a halt, uncomfortably aware of his wine-filled breath. ‘Apologies, sir.’
Tullus raised an eyebrow. ‘Piso.’
‘Sir.’ Piso stared at the tiled floor.
‘What in Hades are you doing here with your entire contubernium?’
Piso met Tullus’ gaze and decided that lying would be a very bad idea. ‘We came to see the eagle, sir.’
Tullus frowned. ‘You see it on parade.’
‘We wanted to pray in the shrine, sir. To tell the eagle we’ll fight to our last drop of blood for it. That the enemy will never lay their hands on it.’ Self-conscious, sure that Tullus would have them digging latrines for the whole summer, Piso looked down again. ‘I also wanted to remember our old eagle. That’s all, sir.’ To his surprise, Tullus began to chuckle.
‘Those are good reasons to visit the shrine, and you’re fine soldiers. Come with me,’ ordered Tullus.
The sentries dared not question an officer of Tullus’ rank, and not twenty heartbeats later, an awestruck Piso and his comrades found themselves entering the shrine, Tullus at their backs. No one said a word. By unspoken consent, the soldiers placed their feet down with care, to stop their hobnails clashing on the floor. Light cast by dozens of oil lamps glittered off the gold and silver on display. This wasn’t just the home of two legions’ eagles. T
he standard of every unit, infantry and cavalry, rested here too. Piso’s gaze fell first on familiar images of the emperor, human hands, discs, crescents, laurel wreaths and spear tips, but like a moth drawn to the flame, his gaze returned to the eagles.
Set apart from the other, less important standards, the iconic gold birds rested in special wooden stands that kept them upright. Identical in appearance, each could be differentiated from the other by the numerals etched into the rectangular, square-sectioned plinth upon which they sat. Piso and his comrades moved reverentially towards the eagle marked ‘V’.
A pulse thrummed at the base of Piso’s throat. The standard had been marched past him before, but he’d never stood so close, never had the opportunity to study it in all its glory. Crouched on thunderbolts, raised wings encircled by a garland, it was as good a representation of an eagle as he had ever seen, and the embodiment of aloof majesty. Its fierce, arrogant eyes bored into Piso, filling him with wonder and respect.
Who are you? it seemed to ask.
I am a soldier of the Fifth Legion, Piso answered in his head.
Why are you here?
To show my respect, Piso replied.
Will you follow me, even unto death?
It will be my honour.
There was no answer, but Piso’s pride stirred. He had laid his soul bare to the eagle, and offered the truth. There could be no repeat of what had happened in the forest seven years before; if needed, he would die for the eagle. So would his tent mates.
Piso bowed and stepped back from the eagle. One by one, his comrades did the same. When they had completed their obeisance, Tullus nodded in approval. ‘Done?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘Yes, sir.’ Piso’s admiration for Tullus spilled over. ‘I can’t begin to thank you, sir. Getting us in here – well, we’re forever in your debt. Gratitude, sir.’
His friends rushed to agree. ‘Aye, sir.’ ‘Thank you, sir.’
Tullus’ fierce, eager eyes moved over their faces. ‘In my mind, every soldier deserves the right to pray before the eagle.’ A brief smile creased his features. ‘Now, best get back to barracks, eh?’
‘What about Tubero, sir?’ Piso’s belly gave an unhappy twist. ‘If he sees us—’
‘You leave Tubero to me.’ Tullus’ tone was granite hard. ‘Clear?’
‘Yes, sir!’ Piso was so happy he could have wept.
Chapter VIII
SOME TEN DAYS later, Tullus was sitting astride his horse on the parade ground outside the fort of Vetera, with his century and the rest of the First Cohort arrayed before him. The legion’s most senior centurion and his direct superior, Bassius, the gaunt-complexioned primus pilus, was riding up and down inspecting the legionaries. The Fifth’s nine other cohorts were there too, the Second beside the First, and behind them, in twos, the rest.
Further to Tullus’ right were the soldiers of the Twenty-First Legion. Four other legions were present; so too were a score of auxiliary cohorts. The massive space, seldom filled, was jammed tight with troops. It was a stirring sight, and marked the opening of the year’s campaign. Other army groups had already left – the legate Silius had led a strong force to crush the Chatti, while most of the cavalry and a number of legionary cohorts had sailed out on to the German Ocean, their task to land at the mouth of the River Amisia and strike southward, as Tullus and his men had done the previous year. The soldiers on parade would form Germanicus’ main army, and be led by him in person. Their first task was to relieve the siege of Aliso, one of Rome’s few remaining forts east of the Rhenus, which had been besieged by enemy tribesmen of recent days.
Lines of lambswool clouds covered the early-morning sky from end to end, moved along by a faint wind. Tullus was content. Conditions seemed set to follow those of the previous few days, with no rain. Cooler, settled weather would make the requisite twenty miles’ march less arduous for his laden-down legionaries. There was no doubt that in the coming months they would endure hot temperatures and lack of water as well as fierce battles with the tribes led by Arminius. If his men were to be granted an easy start to their journey, thought Tullus, so much the better.
There had been no sign of Germanicus, but it wasn’t usual protocol for an army commander to appear on such a day. He had addressed the legions five days before, telling them of the glorious victories they would win this spring and summer, and they’d cheered him to the heavens. Today, he wouldn’t leave until the vanguard and a good portion of the immense column had set out. Like as not, Tullus decided, Germanicus was enjoying the last few hours he would spend with his wife and children until the autumn.
Sirona sprang to mind, unbidden, and Tullus had to hide a smile. Just two nights prior, his dedicated courtship had paid off in royal style when she had asked him to stay with her rather than return to his quarters in the fort. His long wait had been worthwhile, he thought, allowing the smile to emerge. Gods, but it would have been good to see her again today, and Artio. Such a benefit was beyond anyone except the likes of a legate, however – army duties took priority over everything. Besides, Tullus doubted whether Sirona would have permitted a formal farewell. After their night together, she had ushered him from the inn before the sleeping Artio awoke, allowing him only a few kisses as they parted.
For the second time in his life – the first had been the previous year, and because of the same people – Tullus felt a pang of regret to be going to war. Artio and now Sirona were as dear to him as family – they are my family, curse it, he thought. Leaving them was difficult, and growing more so. Even Twig Limbs had wormed his way into Tullus’ affections. Once, he would have laughed at the idea of retiring, of leaving the legions in which he had spent most of his life, but now the notion of setting up house with Sirona and Artio, and using his savings to try his hand at business, appealed.
He shoved all notions of civilian life from his mind. I will think of Sirona and Artio each night before sleep, he told himself, but the rest of the time things will be as they always have. My men will come first until the day we come marching back over the bridge, gods willing with the tribes defeated, Arminius dead and my legion’s eagle recovered.
Tullus eyed the Fifth’s eagle, borne by the aquilifer. This standard-bearer, easy to spot with his lion-skin headdress and scale armour, had the sacred and important job of carrying the eagle. On a day such as this, he would march at the front of the legion, in the ranks of the First Cohort. Because the Fifth Legion had been chosen to form the vanguard today, the aquilifer would lead the entire army to war. Even Tullus, who’d had problems identifying with the Fifth because of what had happened to his old legion, felt his pride stirring to see the eagle there, proud and imperious. It’s ready for the honour of leading us, he thought. It’s ready for the fight. As I and my soldiers are. As every man present is.
Trumpets blared from the fort’s walls, and Tullus let out a long breath. The wait was over. Germanicus had given the order for the army to set out. The signal was echoed by the Fifth’s trumpeters, and in turn by the other legions’ musicians. Auxiliary cohorts sometimes had their own tribal instruments, and the scouts who would march out first – a mixture of skirmishers, cavalry and light infantry – were no different. A terrible racket rose from their ranks – drums, horns and out-of-tune singing – as they tramped and rode towards the settlement and its bridge.
‘They sound like a thousand cats being murdered at once,’ observed Bassius, riding at Tullus’ side. A thin man in late middle age with short grey hair, he bore a savage scar that had left his mouth lopsided. Tough, fearless and an excellent leader, he was esteemed by everyone, not least Tullus. ‘Maybe even two thousand cats,’ the primus pilus mused.
‘The higher figure, I’d say, sir,’ opined Tullus, wincing.
‘They’re good fighters, though, and there are no Arminius-like figures among them.’ Bassius gave the signal and the First Cohort began to march forward, following the scouts. He nudged his horse and took up a position alongside the first ranks.
‘Aye, that makes a difference. Few men will turn traitor if their loved ones sleep by a Roman fort – in the lions’ den, as it were,’ said Bassius. ‘But some auxiliaries with families living elsewhere have remained loyal since Arminius’ ambush. Most of the Chauci, the Frisii, even some Cherusci. What do you think of them?’
‘After the Saltus Teutoburgiensis it took me years to trust any auxiliaries, sir. It was Flavus, Arminius’ brother, who won me over in the end.’
‘Flavus is a good man. Loyal to the empire, and so are his warriors. You spent time with him during the raid that freed Segestes and took Thusnelda prisoner, I believe.’
‘Aye, sir. We had time to talk. Flavus told me how he felt about Arminius. There’s never been any love lost between the two of them – they’re like cat and dog.’
‘Families are ever thus – fighting, disagreeing or falling out,’ said Bassius, shaking his head. ‘The bonds that hold us soldiers together are more reliable. Forged by sweat, blood and sacrifice, they’re stronger than steel. So it has been, and it will always be, eh?’
‘Aye, sir,’ replied Tullus, eyeing his men with pride, and not a little love.
‘Once a soldier, always a soldier. Me, I intend to die in my armour.’
‘You’ll never retire, sir?’
‘Why would I? I love my men, and my legion. I have no wife, no children, and what brothers and sisters of mine survive dwell in Italy. I haven’t seen them for two decades and more. The Fifth is my family, and has been these many years.’ Bassius threw Tullus an enquiring look. ‘I would have thought the same of you.’
‘You’d have been right, sir, until Arminius wiped out the Eighteenth. Life changed then. I can still imagine myself in harness to the bitter end, but there’s more of me these days that would like to settle down near Vetera. I might even get married.’
