Hunting the Eagles (29 page)

‘If our journey was going to be this easy, we should have saved our hobnails and sailed downriver,’ Piso commented late on the fourth day. He raised a hand against Vitellius’ retort. ‘I know, too many of the ships needed repairs.’

‘Would you rather be on land or afloat if we’re attacked?’ asked Saxa, ever the wary one. ‘We’ll be reaching Bructeri territory soon. They laid an ambush on the River Amisia for Drusus, remember.’

‘It’s still nice to dream about not having to march. About not having to carry this.’ Piso indicated his unwieldy yoke with his eyes.

‘Perhaps you should have joined the navy, Piso.’ Tullus had appeared to come, as he did so often, from nowhere. ‘I saw how much you enjoyed being out on the waves during our voyage.’

Piso flushed as his comrades hooted with laughter. ‘I’m happy in the legions, sir. And with my yoke.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’ With a chuckle, Tullus rode off.

‘You could always try the river fleet,’ Vitellius suggested to Piso. He winked at Saxa and Metilius. ‘There’s far less bad weather than on the open ocean. You’d almost never have to go to sea.’

‘Piss off,’ retorted Piso. ‘Why don’t
you
become a sailor?’

‘I’m a happy footslogger, me,’ said Vitellius, his shrug setting the pots and pans on his yoke to clatter. ‘Always have been.’

‘I’ll remind you of that the next time you’re whingeing about a blister, or a sore neck,’ said Piso with a triumphant look. When it came to complaining, Vitellius was one of the most vocal men in the century. Saxa and Metilius snickered; Vitellius glowered.

Piso grinned. It was at times like this, he decided, that life was at its finest. He was with his closest friends, joking and carrying on like carefree youths. They were marching heavily laden, it was true, and sweating like mules, but the weather was pleasant and not too hot. Their rations were being supplemented daily by plenty of meat – sheep and cattle – bought from the local tribesmen, and, like the good centurion he was, Tullus saw to it that there was wine on offer each night.

Battles were inevitable later in the campaign, but Piso knew they would take place on Germanicus’ terms. When this force met with the two others that had set out from various forts on the Rhenus, they would outnumber any foe who faced them. Vengeance will be ours, thought Piso, remembering with a pang Afer and the rest of his comrades who’d been slain in the Teutoburg Forest. Arminius can try his best, but we will send every last one of his warriors into the mud. Rome
will
emerge triumphant, he promised himself. Most important of all, the Eighteenth’s eagle would be recovered.

Some days later, Piso was helping to dig the defensive trench for the night’s camp. For half the men of a campaigning army, this least-loved of tasks came at the end of every second day’s march. His turn was this afternoon, and despite the long job that lay before him and his already aching muscles, Piso was still in good spirits. Around him, his comrades were too. Saxa was halfway through a popular ditty about a brothel, and was bawling the filthiest chorus line in time with each strike of his pickaxe.

The whole contubernium was taking part – Vitellius and others throwing in additional, imaginative lines whenever possible. Infected by their enthusiasm and volume, the men nearby had begun to join in too. Tullus, who was strolling along the top of the ditch, supervising, had a tiny smile on his face. Piso even thought he’d heard Fenestela whistling the song’s tune.

The campaign had begun well, Piso decided. Their arrival from the north had caught the Bructeri napping, and their force was now deep in the tribe’s territory. Settlements and farms had been abandoned wholescale, their panicked inhabitants fleeing into the surrounding forests. Resistance had been sporadic and, for the most part, ineffectual. There’d been one serious attack, the previous day, but it had been thrown back with massive casualties among the Bructeri tribesmen. Piso hadn’t even seen the fighting, because the assault had struck a different part of the marching column.

More promising news – swift to spread between the soldiers – had been brought by the Chauci scouts returning from the south. The two other parts of Germanicus’ army, one under the command of the general Caecina and the second under the legate Stertinius, had already combined and were less than twenty miles away. Together they had also laid waste to large numbers of Bructeri villages, and slain many hundreds of warriors.

If things continued like this, thought Piso, there was a chance that they’d be back in Vetera before the harvest. He dampened his enthusiasm before it took root. Germanicus would
not
lead his vast army back to its camps early. Teaching the tribes who’d risen against Rome their lesson would take time, even if the legions won every battle. We’ll be here until the autumn, Piso told himself. Get used to it.

Saxa had reached the last verse of his song, in which the hero – a legionary, naturally – is forced to choose between his comrades, who are leaving on campaign, and a big-breasted, willing whore. Conscious that every soldier within fifty paces was hanging off his words, he’d stopped digging – a risky move, with Tullus still about. Yet Saxa had made a calculated judgement. Piso spied their centurion close by, hands on hips. A broad and unusual grin was splitting his face – clear permission for Saxa to finish.

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.

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.