Ben Kane: Hunting the Eagles

Late Summer, AD 14

Near the town of Ara Ubiorum

The German Frontier

It was late summer on the German frontier, and four of the local legions – the First, the Fifth, the Twentieth and the Twenty-First – were gathered in a vast temporary camp near the town of Ara Ubiorum. After an afternoon spent with his men on the windswept parade ground outside the encampment, Tullus made his way to the Net and Trident, his favourite drinking hole in the village of tents that had sprung up nearby. Training manoeuvres and planning for the year ahead had brought half of the province’s legions to the same place, not far from the border town of Ara Ubiorum. As was usual, a host of followers-on – tradesmen of every kind, innkeepers, food-sellers, whores, soothsayers and more – had descended soon after, keen for the business offered by upwards of sixteen thousand legionaries.

Tullus’ preferred spot in the Net and Trident had been taken when he’d arrived, dry-throated and tired. Without making a fuss – the table at the back wasn’t his property – he had taken a seat close by. He liked the ‘inn’ because its tent was small, hard to find, and close to a good brothel. Its land-lord was a retired soldier, an ex-optio; he took no nonsense from drunk customers yet retained a wicked sense of humour. The wine was of decent quality, and the food wasn’t bad either.

Prices for both were higher than what was comfortable for ordinary soldiers, so most of its customers were officers. After a lifetime in the legions, that suited Tullus down to the ground. He loved his men, even the reprobates in the century he’d commanded for the last five years, but when his duties were done, he liked to be able to relax. To say things that he couldn’t if ordinary legionaries were about.

Without company at first, he fell to brooding. Things weren’t the same as they had been before, in the Eighteenth. How could they be? Tullus had served in it for a decade and a half, had become commander of the Second Cohort, one of the most senior centurions in the entire legion. Curse it, he’d known every centurion and most junior officers in the Eighteenth by name. I was a respected man, he thought, and now I’m just a rank-and-file centurion in the Seventh Cohort of a legion I barely know. The fucking Seventh! The majority of the legion’s centurions were men ten years younger than he, or more. It was especially galling that these almost-youths were also of superior rank.

A good number of these centurions were courteous enough to Tullus, but there was a group of about a dozen who had taken against him from the start. He had come to recognise all too well their superior looks and snide comments. It went against the grain, but he tended to avoid confrontation with them where possible. There were only so many fights left in him, and Tullus wanted to keep them for those upon whom he wanted revenge – the real enemy – Arminius and the German tribes.

The future appeared promising in that regard. Germanicus was governor now, as he’d promised. His need to supervise a new census throughout the vast province meant that there had been no campaign into Germania this year, but in the spring, things would change. According to the camp gossip Tullus had heard, the force to cross the Rhenus would be large – up to eight legions – and there would be little quarter offered to the empire’s foes.

Tullus drained his beaker in one swallow, taking comfort from the warm glow as the wine ran down to his stomach. The jug he’d bought was empty too, so he looked about for a waitress.

First to pass him was a skinny woman with awful teeth whose name he could never recall. ‘More wine,’ said Tullus.

‘Yes, sir.’ She took the vessel without even slowing.

Best take it easy, Tullus decided as she vanished in the direction of the bar. It could be a long night. ‘Water it down, four parts to one,’ he called out.

She turned, raised an eyebrow, but returned with a jug of dilute wine.

Time passed. Several centurions and optiones from the Sixth Cohort came in, and invited Tullus to their table. After an hour of pleasant conversation, his decision to moderate his intake of wine had been forgotten. He’d had at least another jug, and was thinking that it was time to order another. Fenestela’s arrival was most opportune, therefore. ‘My round,’ he insisted.

Tullus raised his hands. ‘Be my guest.’

Fenestela came back with three jugs. ‘The place is getting crowded,’ he explained. ‘It saves having to queue up.’ He slid one down the table, towards the other officers, and parked the others between him and Tullus.

They toasted one another, and drank. ‘May Germanicus lead us to victory, and to recovering the lost eagles,’ said Tullus, and clinked his cup off Fenestela’s again. ‘May we also kill or take Arminius.’

‘Aye. To the spring campaign.’

They drank again.

‘Happy with the men?’ asked Tullus. He’d left Fenestela to march his soldiers back to the camp, and to oversee their last duties of the day.

‘I am. They were complaining about the length of training, and how they wanted hot baths, not cold river water, to clean up in. The usual stuff. The conscripts were whingeing the most.’

‘Nothing changes,’ said Tullus with a chuckle.

‘Piso volunteered for sentry duty again.’

‘Thank the gods that we managed to keep him with us, and Vitellius.’ The two were a little like him and Fenestela, thought Tullus, complete physical opposites. Where Piso was tall and good-humoured, Vitellius was short and acerbic. That didn’t stop them being the best of friends, and excellent soldiers.

‘They’re both good men.’

‘That’s certain.’ After the ambush, Tullus would have liked to have held on to every legionary from his original unit, but that wasn’t the way the army worked. If it hadn’t been for Caedicius, the former camp prefect of Aliso, now a good friend, Tullus would have retained none of his original command. Not even Fenestela. Tullus pushed away the thought. He did have Fenestela, and Piso and Vitellius. That counted more than his demotion.

The rest of his soldiers weren’t a bad bunch, even if some of them – in particular the conscripts – weren’t well suited to military life. The conscripts had been forced into the army during the widespread panic in the months after Arminius’ ambush, when the emperor’s initial request for volunteers to join the army had met with a poor response. Augustus’ forcible draft had resulted in thousands of unwilling citizens joining the Rhenus legions. Every unit had a certain number of them, and some more than others. Tullus was grateful that his century had only twenty-five or so.

His bladder twinged. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said to Fenestela. ‘Keep my seat.’

Upon his return, Tullus was irritated by the sight, two tables over from his, of four centurions from the Second Cohort and a couple from the First, along with an assortment of junior officers from their units. It wasn’t correct to call them his enemies. Relations between them weren’t that bad. Adversaries perhaps, Tullus decided. He sat down opposite Fenestela, who had his back to them. ‘Have you seen-’ he began.

‘Aye,’ replied Fenestela, scowling. ‘The cocksuckers didn’t notice me, though.’

‘Nor me.’ That was the best way, thought Tullus, keeping his head down. He and Fenestela couldn’t fight ten men, never mind the fact that such behaviour was considered unacceptable for centurions. He had no desire to end his career in a lower-ranking cohort, or even in the ranks.

‘Listen to what they’re saying.’

Tullus pricked his ears. As was natural, there was a lot of background noise: loud conversations, singing, an occasional shout, and bursts of laughter. It was fortunate that the two junior officers between their table and that of the group of centurions were talking in whispers. Like as not, they’re gossiping about which whorehouse to visit, thought Tullus.