Ben Kane: Hunting the Eagles

‘How could I forget?’ Fenestela pulled down the neck of his tunic, exposing a red welt that ran across the base of his neck.

‘Gods, I remember that day. A spear, wasn’t it?’

‘Aye.’ Fenestela threw a sour look at the warriors in the nearest wagons. Despite the bombardment of objects, they remained proud-faced, straight-backed, even contemptuous. ‘It’s good enough for the whoresons, I say.’

The crowd’s enthusiasm for abusing the tribesmen came to an end as carts loaded with women and crying children trundled by. People averted their eyes, asked for lenient treatment and muttered prayers. Tullus felt an overweening contempt for the citizens around him. These people are prisoners thanks to a war that was waged in your name, he thought. Face up to it.

He forgot his concerns as the highest-ranking captives came past, among them Bato of the Daesidiates, one of the leaders of the three-year rebellion. Broad-shouldered, tall, clad in full battle array, Bato received the crowd’s acclaim by shaking his raised fists so that the chains linking them rang.

‘Is he to be executed?’ Tullus asked of the man beside him, a well-to-do-looking merchant.

‘Tiberius has decreed that he should live because he allowed our troops to escape at Andretium, and he surrendered with honour.’

Tullus hid his surprise. ‘He’s a generous man, Tiberius.’

‘The gods bless him and keep him safe. He has ruled that Bato is to live at Ravenna, with every comfort under the sun.’

‘Do you hear that?’ Tullus muttered to Fenestela when the merchant had looked away. ‘A fucking barbarian gets better treatment than us.’

‘Nothing surprises me any more,’ said Fenestela with a grimace.

Despite the revelation, Tullus cheered with plenty of vigour as Tiberius appeared in a chariot drawn by four magnificent white stallions. His reaction was mirrored by everyone around him. The air resounded to the noise of cheers, screams and trumpets. Resplendent in the purple tunic and toga of a triumphant general, and with a crimson-painted face, Tiberius was holding a sceptre in one hand and a laurel branch in the other. Fleshy-chinned and long-nosed, he was no beauty, but he looked regal enough on this, his day of days. Behind him stood a slave, his job to hold a laurel wreath over Tiberius’ head for the length of the procession.

‘TI-BER-I-US! TI-BER-I-US! TI-BER-I-US!’ chanted the crowd.

The chance of Tiberius recognising Tullus and placing him in context was infinitesimal – they had been introduced once – but Tullus still dropped his gaze as the emperor’s heir came alongside his position. He hadn’t expected Tiberius’ nephew Germanicus, whom he had also met, to be riding right behind the chariot. Tall, big-framed and even-featured, Germanicus had a strong chin and thick brown hair. He was a striking man under normal circumstances, and in his dazzling gilded armour, he seemed close to a god.

As Tullus looked up, he found himself staring straight at Germanicus, who blinked and frowned. A heartbeat later, he mouthed, ‘I know you!’

Tullus froze on the spot, like a new recruit shouted at by his centurion. To his horror, it was now that one of the occasional delays to the procession happened. Instead of riding on, Germanicus remained right where he was. Tullus wanted to duck down, to turn and run, but his strength failed him.

Fenestela had also noticed Germanicus; averting his face, he pulled at Tullus’ arm. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

The physical touch brought Tullus to his senses. Even as it did, Germanicus called out: ‘You! Centurion!’

Several thoughts flashed through Tullus’ mind. The summons was for him, he was sure of it. He could pretend not to hear, look elsewhere and hope that the procession began to move before Germanicus had time to order him seized. He could flee, like a rat surprised by the opening of a sewer cover, and be pursued, or he could stand like a man and acknowledge Germanicus.

Ignoring Fenestela’s hiss of dismay, he squared his shoulders and met Germanicus’ stern gaze. ‘D’you mean me, sir?’

‘I do. You serve on the Rhenus, do you not?’

‘You have a fine memory, sir,’ answered Tullus, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him. If Germanicus recalled what they had talked about – Arminius’ ambush and the annihilation of Varus’ army – he was a dead man. Breaking the imperial ban was a capital offence.

‘Let’s go,’ urged Fenestela in a whisper.

‘We met there last year,’ said Germanicus.

‘Yes, sir. I am honoured that you recall it.’ From the corner of his eye, Tullus saw Tiberius’ chariot start moving. Let me be, he prayed. I’m no one.

‘Attend me once the sacrifices have been made. The front of the Curia.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Any thought that he might have a chance to escape before the appointed time vanished from Tullus’ mind as Germanicus jerked his head, and two Praetorian guardsmen pushed their way through the crowd towards him. Shit, he thought. He does know that I’m not supposed to be in Italy, or Rome. ‘Go,’ he ordered Fenestela. ‘He hasn’t seen you.’

‘I’m not running from those peacocks,’ retorted Fenestela, eyeing the Praetorians’ burnished armour and helmets.

‘Fenestela-’

Fenestela stuck out his jaw. ‘I belong with you, sir .’

I’m a fool, thought Tullus. A proud, stupid fool. So is Fenestela. We survived everything Arminius and his mongrel followers could throw at us, only to be caught out by one of our own.

He could almost hear their death sentences being read aloud.

The wait outside the Curia – perhaps two hours – felt like an eternity to Tullus. The removal of the prisoners who were to be executed at the base of the Capitoline, the ascent of Tiberius to Jupiter’s temple, the shouts from the crowd watching the ceremony there, and the distribution of bread and wine to the crowd passed by him in a daze. Even the arrival of the soldiers who’d marched behind Tiberius, the part of the procession that he’d most wanted to see, could not lift his mood. Miserable, blaming himself for Fenestela’s fate, he strode about the Curia, watched by the stony-faced Praetorians.

At one stage, he began to consider killing their guards so that they could escape. It was fortunate that he confided in Fenestela, who was swift to disabuse him of the notion. ‘You’re not thinking straight. Even if we managed it, which is unlikely given our lack of weapons, we’d have the city’s entire garrison after us. I wouldn’t give much for our chances after that. Sit tight and pray. That’s our best hope.’

Fenestela had never been much for praying, which said a lot about what he thought Germanicus would do to them. At a loss, Tullus did as Fenestela advised, and kept his peace. He felt like a murderer waiting for his capital sentence to be passed.

Germanicus’ arrival, swift and silent, caught him off guard. He had just one cavalryman as escort, but his magnificent armour left no doubt as to his station. Close up, the commanding presence granted by his height and charisma was even more palpable. Tullus leaped to attention, his back as stiff, his shoulders as far back as he could manage. ‘Sir!’

‘Sir!’ Fenestela was like his mirror image.

‘Name?’ demanded Germanicus.

‘Centurion Lucius Cominius Tullus, sir, serving in the Seventh Cohort of the Fifth Legion.’

‘Who’s this?’ Eyeing Fenestela, Germanicus slid from his horse’s back with an easy grace. His escort took the mount’s reins and led it to a nearby water trough.

‘My optio, sir. Fenestela’s his name.’

Germanicus gave Fenestela another casual look. ‘He’s an ugly whoreson.’