Ben Kane - Hunting the Eagles

The legionaries’ mood was linked to the disquieting calm that had enveloped the camp as the news of Augustus’ passing had spread – he was sure of it. Tullus had experienced something equally disconcerting once before, during the terrible time that had followed the ambush in the forest. The low morale and sad mood then had been because of a shattering defeat, not an emperor’s death, but the feeling in the air now was angrier. More dangerous. Tullus worried that it was linked to the continuing rumours of unrest among the legionaries, and prayed with the same breath that it was not.

Matters weren’t being helped by the inaction of Aulus Caecina Severus, the governor of Germania Inferior. Tullus couldn’t work out Caecina’s motive for doing nothing – in his book, decisiveness was always better than indecisiveness. Yet Caecina had delivered no impassioned speech praising Augustus’ rule and looking forward to Tiberius’ steady hand at the empire’s helm. In fact, he had made no announcements at all. He hadn’t even ordered a parade in honour of the dead emperor, which would have raised spirits and provided cause for drunken celebration. Germanicus might have done something, but he was far away in Gallia Belgica, supervising the collection of tax information.

The air of foreboding was added to by the soothsayers who had appeared in the camp, attracted like wolves to a fresh carcase. Patrolling the avenues, they offered their services without challenge, and proclaimed that tumultuous times awaited everyone in the empire. Tullus had heard one startling revelation from a soothsayer in the past, but it had not altered his opinion that the vast majority of them were complete charlatans. The day before, he had personally run off the first one spotted by his century’s lines, beating the man with his vitis , or vine stick, until his arm grew tired. He had ordered the sentries to mete out similar treatment to any others they saw.

Spotting two figures engaged in quiet conversation by his tent, Tullus wondered if another soothsayer was looking for custom. His pace quickened, and he readied his vitis. ‘If it’s the same fool I saw yesterday,’ he muttered to himself, ‘I’ll tear him a new arsehole.’

To Tullus’ surprise, it was Piso and Vitellius. ‘What are you up to?’ he growled. ‘Fancy yourselves some extra sentry duty?’

Piso let out an uneasy laugh. ‘No, sir.’

‘Clear off then. I’m tired.’

Piso shuffled his feet, but he didn’t move. Surprised, Tullus was about to raise his voice when Piso whispered, ‘Can we have a word with you, sir, in private?’

The request was unusual in itself, but the pair’s nervousness was also odd. ‘Very well.’ Tullus glanced left and right, and was pleased that there were no soldiers close by. ‘Sit.’ He planted himself on the three-legged stool that had replaced the one he’d lost, with so much else, during the ambush. The two men sat cross-legged in the dirt, on either side of his still-glowing fire. ‘Speak,’ Tullus ordered.

Piso looked at Vitellius, who nodded. Encouraged, Piso began, ‘I don’t know how to say this, sir, other than straight out.’ He lowered his voice even further. ‘There’s talk of mutiny.’

‘Mutiny?’ Tullus rolled his tongue around a suddenly dry mouth. Three decades he’d been in the army without witnessing such a thing. This might explain the camp’s unhappy atmosphere, he thought. ‘Tell me everything, from the start.’

He listened, grim-faced, as Piso spoke of the illegal gathering that he and Vitellius had witnessed. They had just been going to play dice, Piso repeated multiple times. In the end, Tullus told him to stop, that he knew they were both loyal – why else would they have come to him?

When Piso revealed that there had been men from his century there, Tullus held up a hand. It didn’t surprise him that much – there were malcontents throughout the army – but it rankled. A lot. ‘Give me their names.’

After a brief hesitation, Piso obeyed.

‘Only three?’ demanded Tullus, thinking: there are more conscripts and pissed-off veterans than that under my command. Fenestela spoke of six to ten.

‘Those were the only ones I saw, sir, on my life.’

Commanding Piso to finish his story, Tullus stared into the orange-red embers of his fire, pondering what to do. A deeper gloom took him after Piso related how Bony Face had directed those present to recruit as many men as possible. Was it already too late to act? Tullus wondered, jabbing a stick at the burning logs until trails of sparks wandered up into the darkening sky. If it wasn’t, what was the best action to take?

To arrest Bony Face and his cronies, as well as the three men seen by Piso, would be a start, he decided, and better than nothing. Unless the centurions of each cohort were blind, deaf and dumb, they would have a fair idea of the troublemakers within their units. A lightning-quick exercise carried out by loyal troops under the cover of darkness could see the ringleaders, or most of them, incarcerated before dawn. The potential mutiny would be nipped in the bud.

For that to happen, however, Tullus would need to persuade Septimius, his prick of a senior centurion, of the danger – and after him, a tribune. If Tullus managed to get that far, he had the mountain-sized problem that was his legate Tubero to contend with.

The man had been a pain in the arse since he first appeared, five years ago, thought Tullus. It was usual for noblemen to serve as legion tribunes from the age of twenty and upward, but Tubero’s father’s friendship with the emperor had seen him appointed at the tender age of seventeen. His subsequent rash behaviour and refusal to listen to Tullus’ advice had helped to push one of the German tribes towards rebellion. The headstrong youth had escaped Arminius’ ambush thanks only to a veteran who’d chanced upon him – so said a centurion friend of Tullus, who knew the soldier concerned. In the years since, Tubero had risen to the rank of legate. It was Tullus’ ill fortune that he had been appointed to the Fifth Legion.

Even if Tullus could get past Tubero, above him, like Jupiter on his throne raised over the other gods, was Caecina. Success seemed so improbable that Tullus wanted to groan out loud. Conscious of Piso and Vitellius’ eyes on him, he made no outward show of emotion. ‘You did well to bring this news to me. Keep your ears to the ground. Report anything else you hear to me, double quick.’ He jerked his head, dismissing them.

Rising, Vitellius saluted and made to leave, but Piso lingered. ‘What are you going to do, sir?’

Tullus’ instinct was to bite his head off, but Piso deserved better than that. ‘I need evidence,’ he said. ‘ I believe you, but your word isn’t enough to persuade someone like Legate Tubero that the sewer is about to burst. I’m going to do a little eavesdropping between now and the morning. Thanks to you, I know the right place to start.’

Piso looked as unhappy as Tullus felt about this far-from-certain tactic, but he was powerless to protest. ‘Very good, sir. With your permission.’ He strode off towards his tent.

Tullus went to find Fenestela. He needed someone to confide in. He also needed more wine.

A lot of it.

Some time before the sun had risen the following morning, Tullus was stealing down the narrow ‘corridor’ that ran between the back of his men’s tents and those of another century. Experience had taught him that this was one of the best places to listen in on soldiers’ conversations. This was not something he’d had to do much, but it was useful upon occasion, and necessary in this uncertain time. The trumpets to wake the camp had not yet been blown, but he and Fenestela had already roused the soldiers, so there was chatter to overhear. They were going on a twenty-mile march, Tullus had bawled, so they had to be up, breakfasted and ready to leave within the hour.