Eagles in the Storm

by Ben Kane

Hoots of laughter broke out, and Metilius scowled. ‘So none of you want any? That’s fine.’

  ‘We didn’t say that,’ said Piso, reaching behind Metilius and snatching up the bag of wine. Ignoring Metilius’ protests, he took a long swig before handing it to the man on his other side. ‘You can have it back when it’s empty,’ Piso said to Metilius.

  ‘Bastards.’ Knowing better than to pursue his skin, Metilius made loud objections about each man’s consumption as his wine moved around the fire. No one paid a bit of notice – each of them had had the same happen countless times before, whether with a piece of cheese, a cut of meat or a leather bag of sour, cheap wine.

  ‘Good to see everyone in fine spirits,’ boomed Tullus, appearing from the shadows, still in his armour and vitis in hand. He signalled them back down as they leaped up, saluting. ‘Rest easy, brothers.’

  The six subsided, happy to see their centurion, but a little uneasy, a little self-conscious in his presence.

  ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’ demanded Tullus, his eyes on the skins.

  ‘Of course, sir. Sorry, sir,’ spluttered Dulcius, standing up and passing Piso’s skin over. ‘Here you are.’

  Placing the opening to his lips, Tullus raised the bag high. He was quick to lower it. ‘That’s vile,’ he said, making a face. ‘This all you can afford, Dulcius?’

  ‘Not mine, sir. It belongs to Piso.’

  ‘And I thought you were a man of taste, Piso,’ said Tullus, stoppering the skin and hurling it at him. ‘Did you purchase some of Verrucosus’ slops?’ He was referring to the owner of the dirtiest, most run-down tavern in Vetera.

  ‘No, sir. This is a young vintage, that’s all, sir,’ said Piso with a wink. ‘Try Metilius’ wine – it’s even worse.’

  Everyone watched, Metilius with some trepidation, as Tullus took a pull from the second skin. He screwed up his face. ‘Bacchus’ sweaty balls, Metilius, that’s fucking disgusting!’

  ‘You swallowed it, sir,’ countered Metilius as his comrades’ shrieks of amusement rained down. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Only a fool spits out free wine when he’s far from the nearest tavern,’ replied Tullus, taking another mouthful. His gaze roved around the fire, assessing, gauging. ‘Had enough to eat tonight?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Piso and his comrades rumbled. No mention was made of the lamb, by mutual unspoken consent. For the most part, Tullus could be relied on to turn a blind eye to such pilferage, but it didn’t do to test him.

  Tullus sat down opposite Piso. ‘You ready for the march tomorrow? Prepared to fight?’

  Their ‘Ayes’ were louder this time, as they knew Tullus wanted them to be.

  ‘These past days have been frustrating, I know, but we’ll bring Arminius to bay,’ Tullus announced with cold certainty. ‘The day we do, Germanicus will lead us to a great victory. Fortuna’s with us this time, and Mars – I know it in my bones. We’ll be there, in the thick of the fighting, brothers, to make sure those whoreson Germans meet the fate they deserve.’

  Piso and the rest gave him an enthusiastic response. ‘Roma Victrix!’ ‘Mars Ultor!’ ‘Germanicus!’

  ‘With Arminius defeated, those of us who were in the Eighteenth will regain our honour, and perhaps the eagle that was taken from us.’ Tullus stared into the flames, his expression brooding.

  Piso’s heart leaped. ‘Has there been any news of it, sir?’

  Tullus’ frown deepened. ‘No.’

  An awkward silence fell. Unsure what to say – who knew if the eagles that had belonged to the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Legions would ever return home? – Piso could see his disquiet mirrored in his comrades’ faces. The wine skins began to move around the fire again as they took the only solace available. When one reached Tullus, he drank deepest of all, passing on the bag without looking at the next man, his eyes fixed on the burning logs.

  Piso watched him sidelong, a new worry gnawing his guts. Like everyone who’d been in Tullus’ old command, he knew that his centurion had suffered a grievous internal wound during Arminius’ savage ambush. Never before had Piso seen it so plain: Tullus was a tortured man. He would not rest – could not, Piso corrected himself – until his old legion’s eagle had been salvaged. While he shared Tullus’ conviction that Arminius and his allies would be defeated, Piso felt a deal less certain about the hunt for the lost standards. Iconic items, magnetic symbols of power even to non-Romans, they would be treasured and kept safe by the tribes who held them – all the more so because of the recovery of the Nineteenth’s eagle the previous year.

  Tullus was the bedrock of his men’s existence, the foundation upon which they relied. Piso wasn’t alone in regarding him with a reverential awe. Never before had Piso stopped to consider that his centurion might have human frailties, yet the stark evidence of this faced him over the fire, not six paces away. Tullus’ eyes were haunted, his shoulders threatening to stoop. Piso didn’t like it.

  Dangers posed by the Germans aside, Piso thought, what did the future hold for Tullus? Not much, if the Eighteenth’s eagle wasn’t found. Dear as Sirona and Artio were to Tullus, they weren’t capable of healing his deepest injury.

  ‘We’ll find it, sir,’ Piso blurted.

  Tullus looked up. ‘Eh?’

  ‘We will get back our eagle, sir, on my life. Me and my brothers, we’ll do anything it takes, won’t we?’ Sharp as needles, Piso’s eyes roved over his comrades.

  ‘Course we will, sir,’ Metilius was quick to add. The others muttered their support. ‘The eagle will be ours again, sir.’ ‘Aye, sir.’ ‘No doubt about it, sir.’

  ‘The whole cohort feels the same way, sir,’ Piso continued, even though he wasn’t sure of that. Spreading the word about how important it was for Tullus would be his new mission, he swore to himself. If Tullus heard it from enough mouths, perhaps it would help.

  A brief, weary smile marked Tullus’ face. ‘You’re good boys. An officer couldn’t ask for better soldiers.’ Grimacing, he got to his feet, waving a dismissive hand as they also made to stand. ‘Don’t stay up all night. We’ve got another long march tomorrow.’ He tramped off into the darkness, not in the direction of the next contubernium along, but towards his own tent, making Piso’s concern for him resurge.

  Chapter XII

  ‘BY ALL THE gods, there it is,’ said Tullus, pointing with his vitis. ‘Do you see? That’s manmade, or I’m no judge.’

  Fenestela, come from his position to confer, peered at the low hummock that stood some hundred paces in front of them, its lower slopes decorated with trees. ‘Diana’s left tit, I think you’re right.’

  ‘I usually am,’ replied Tullus, his tone sarcastic.

  Ten days had passed since his conversation with Piso and his comrades. While half the army provided a protective screen, several legions including the Fifth – and Tullus and his men – were combing a range of low hills close to the River Albis. More than 250 miles east of the Rhenus, a hundred from the cold and hostile German Sea, the windswept site had the feel of the world’s end. Guided here by Flavus, Arminius’ brother, who knew the area because of its proximity to his own Cherusci tribe’s homeland, the legions had been searching for Drusus’ tropaeum for two days without success.

  ‘Screw you, sir,’ Fenestela said under his breath.

  Tullus chuckled, not the slightest put out. ‘Who’d have thought we would return to this spot – if I’m right, of course. The last time you and I were here …’ He paused, reliving the vicious battle he and his men had waged as part of Drusus’ army, a generation before. The Marcomanni had been like every German tribe: courageous, tough enemies, warriors unafraid to die even when it had become clear their cause was hopeless.

  ‘A hard fight, it was.’ Fenestela’s expression was sombre. ‘We lost more than a dozen from the century.’

  ‘That sounds right.’ A sigh escaped Tullus. So many men had died under his command over the previous twenty-something years that he had long since forgotten most
of their faces. Try as he might, he couldn’t rid himself of the nagging guilt that he should have saved more, impossible task though that would have been. The unwelcome emotion lurked in the dark recesses of his soul, emerging when his spirits were low, or when he stood in a place such as this.

  Tullus’ skin crawled. He could almost see shadowy figures at the edge of his vision, wraiths from his past come to life. With a fierce blink, he forced them to disappear. The only figures in sight were his legionaries of the Fifth, standing in a long line and motionless because he had stopped. They were good men, he thought. Fine soldiers. He would keep them alive whatever the cost.

  Fenestela indicated the hummock. ‘Best go and see if your old eyes were right or not, eh?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight, curse you,’ growled Tullus, swiping at Fenestela with his vitis, but his optio was already gone, returning to the century’s rear.

  Grumbling to himself, Tullus gave the order to advance.

  An hour later, Tullus was atop the mound, waiting for Germanicus. His hunch had been correct. At the top of the hummock, he had found an oak trunk, now cast down, but still decorated with a mail shirt. The entire area was scattered with spear heads and shield bosses. Helmets and swords weren’t as plentiful – few Germanic warriors could afford such expensive equipment, so they would have been taken as booty. Mail was scarce for the same reason. Leaving the enemy slain at a tropaeum wasn’t uncommon, but the local tribes appeared to have buried these corpses at the same time as they had torn down Drusus’ altar and the weaponry that had decorated it.

  Tullus’ soldiers and the rest of the cohort were content: finding the tropaeum had ended their sweaty, laborious search. With Bassius in command, three centuries stood guard in a semicircle, facing east and south, while the rest had settled down to wait for their commander. They weren’t allowed to sit, but Tullus and the other centurions had permitted them to down their shields and to rest their javelins against the trees. Sacred site or no, the legionaries relished the opportunity for a rest. Food and wine had been broken out. Banter and easy conversation flowed. Games of dice and latrunculi were being played. Jokes and filthy stories filled the air, but in low voices. Overgrown, despoiled, this was still a sacred place.

  Peeeeep! Peeeeep!

  Tullus had been waiting for this signal – Bassius had agreed with his suggestion for Fenestela to wait a couple of hundred paces away, on Germanicus’ likely approach route. Two blasts of his whistle meant their general was coming. ‘Germanicus is here! Pick your shields and javelins up, you lazy bastards. Form up by the century,’ Tullus shouted.

  Mention of the hallowed name had men scrambling for their weapons and equipment. Tullus paced up and down, scowling and barking at the individuals who weren’t moving fast enough. Watched by their centurions, the two other centuries hurried to do the same. By the time the noise of hooves was audible, the hummock was ringed by an almost complete circle of legionaries facing inward. A gap had been left through which Germanicus and his escort could ride. Straight-backed, javelins planted and with their shields resting on the ground before them, the soldiers made an impressive sight.

  Tullus remained beside the largest pile of evidence, the oak trunk that had stood here, and a dozen or more shield bosses, their once polished surfaces rusty and tarnished.

  Germanicus’ entrance was everything Tullus had come to expect. In full general’s attire, he rode a fine grey stallion wearing magnificent decorated harness. Although the army had been on the march for days, Germanicus’ armour gleamed as if new, and the scarlet crest on his helmet looked fresh-dyed. Head to toe the army’s commander, thought Tullus. Following Germanicus was his usual retinue of staff officers, servants and Praetorians. Slowing his mount, he walked it towards Tullus, who came to attention. ‘General!’ he cried, saluting.

  Germanicus’ stern expression eased. ‘Centurion Tullus. We meet again.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Germanicus’ gaze was already focused on the bosses and great trunk at Tullus’ feet. Slipping from his horse’s back, he handed the reins to Tullus – not a demeaning gesture, but one of recognition – and said, ‘You think this is the site of my father’s tropaeum?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure at first, sir. I thought that the weapons here might have been left for another reason, but then we found the oak trunk and I saw the view.’ Tullus pointed east. Between the beeches and spruces perched on the mound’s eastern side, the wide sinuous band that was the Albis was visible, some half mile away. ‘A man doesn’t forget a sight like that.’

  Germanicus stared at Tullus in surprise. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’

  You never asked, thought Tullus. ‘It was my honour to serve Drusus, sir.’

  ‘Did you ever have occasion to speak with him?’ There was a longing note to Germanicus’ voice.

  ‘No, sir. I was but an optio then – there was no reason for us to meet. I saw him often of course, and I fought close to his position once. He was a great leader.’

  ‘So they say.’ Germanicus’ expression grew sorrowful. ‘My memories of him are few. The strongest I have are of his funeral.’

  ‘He was taken from us too soon, sir. Every soldier in the army grieved at his passing. The tumulus in Mogontiacum is proof of that.’ Tullus had vivid memories of a visit to the town many years before when he’d watched the local troops racing around Drusus’ monument.

  ‘My uncle Tiberius says that he planned to go further east with his army. Do you remember aught of that?’

  ‘There was talk of it, sir. The weather was good; there would have been time to construct a bridge using boats.’

  ‘It never happened. Do you know why?’

  Tullus studied Germanicus and wondered if he knew. ‘The rumours were that Drusus dreamed of a huge Suebian woman, sir, an evil spirit. She told him he was destined not to see the lands on the far bank of the Albis.’ Tullus hesitated, not wishing to repeat the ghoul’s final words. Spread by a loose-lipped priest in whom Drusus had confided, they had travelled through the army like a forest fire.

  ‘She warned him that his life was soon to end,’ grated Germanicus. ‘Is that not so?’

  ‘Aye, sir, I think so.’ Tullus looked down, his mind full of bad memories. Ordered by Drusus to strike camp the moment the tropaeum had been finished, the army had set out for the Rhenus, hundreds of miles distant. Their journey, through hostile territory, had been unpleasant from the start. Wolves had trailed after the legions, and howled in the darkness outside their fortifications. Shooting stars had blazed overhead night after night. A pair of young boys had been seen riding through the tent lines one evening, although children were banned from entering the camp. On more than one occasion, women’s wails – as if parted from their babes – had risen from the ramshackle tents of the army’s followers, but when patrols were sent to investigate, no one could be found who would admit to making the cries. ‘It was a troubling march, sir,’ said Tullus, ‘and it got worse when your father was thrown from his mount.’

  Germanicus made the sign against evil.

  It was uncommon for men to die from a simple fall, yet that had been Drusus’ fate, thought Tullus. Perhaps he had been visited by an evil spirit.

  ‘Whatever my father’s destiny, I have had visions only of victory,’ Germanicus declared, staring at the far bank of the Albis. ‘It would be pleasing to take my legions further east this summer, but that is not my purpose. Arminius and his warriors have yet to be crushed. We will linger here long enough to see the tropaeum rebuilt and consecrated once more, but then our hunt will continue.’

  ‘A good plan, sir.’ Tullus was pleased by Germanicus’ calm attitude regarding his father’s end, and by the planned ceremony at the tropaeum, which would allow him to honour not just Drusus, but Tullus’ own soldiers who’d fallen during Arminius’ ambush.

  ‘The men will enjoy the gladiator fights,’ Germanicus declared.

  ‘Funeral games, sir?’

  ‘My bro
ther and I held them in memory of our father some years ago, but this is a more fitting place than Rome – they will take place here, where his campaigning came to an end. The gods will look well on such sacrifices.’ There was a wild glint in Germanicus’ eyes. ‘How many prisoners have we taken?’

  ‘I’m not sure of the exact figures, sir. One, two thousand?’ Tullus felt no sympathy for these German tribesmen. They all had Roman blood on their hands.

  ‘Spartacus once had four hundred captives fight until just one was left living. The survivor – a senior centurion – had to carry the news of his army’s defeat to Rome. I’ll not be bettered by a slave,’ Germanicus continued, striding to and fro as if delivering a speech to the Senate. ‘Five hundred warriors will take part. Their deaths will honour my father’s shade, and win divine assistance in defeating Arminius.’

  Tullus was impressed. He had forgotten how ruthless Germanicus could be. ‘The final warrior will bear word to Arminius, sir?’

  ‘Aye.’ Germanicus’ tone was granite hard. ‘Unless he is a complete coward, Arminius will fight then.’

  Chapter XIII

  ‘GERMANICUS DID WHAT?’ roared Arminius. It was mid-morning, and he was knee-deep in a river close to his camp, bare-chested – interrupted in the middle of his ablutions. Maelo had arrived at the head of a group of warriors, bringing with him a man who’d been sent, it seemed, by Germanicus himself.

  ‘He paired off five hundred warriors, and forced them to fight to the death,’ repeated Maelo, his tone grim. ‘The two hundred and fifty left had to do the same thing, and so it went on. This man is the only one left.’

  Arminius peered at the figure standing a dozen paces behind Maelo, waiting to be summoned. A big man, he stood with bowed shoulders and matted hair covering his face. Tears and cuts marked most parts of his tunic and trousers, offering glimpses of multiple wounds. It was a wonder he was able to walk, thought Arminius, a dark fury thrumming through him. ‘What’s his name?’