Ben Kane - Hunting the Eagles

‘We’ll be careful,’ muttered Vitellius, jingling his own purse.

Piso decided to try the men of their own unit anyway, but a barrage of abuse met him from every tent as he poked his head in and asked if anyone was feeling lucky. Ignoring Vitellius’ ‘I told you so’ comments, he led the way to the Second Century’s tents, which lay a short distance from their own. There was plenty of light in the sky, and autumn’s chill hadn’t yet arrived to stay, so dozens of legionaries were still outside – gossiping, drinking, and repairing equipment. The scene was no different to any other night of the year, but Piso detected a certain tension in the air.

Faces were sour, and men were talking in hushed tones. Suspicious looks were hurled if his eyes lingered on anyone. Perhaps it wasn’t the best night to gamble, he thought, before telling himself that things would be fine. They almost always were – Piso had a gift for making men laugh, helping them to feel at ease. It made beating them at dice easier. And safer. Nonetheless, a cautious approach was warranted – and he’d refrain from drinking wine.

Piso avoided the tents nearest those of the Second Century’s officers. They were doing nothing wrong, but it was good policy to avoid the scrutiny of those in charge. Some centurions and optiones made it their business to find fault wherever possible.

Two soldiers were loitering close to the first pair of tents, which appeared to be packed. Piso didn’t think anything of it at first, but as they drew nearer, the men’s demeanour changed, the way doormen at an inn assess the troublemaking potential of new customers. He recognised them as brothers – they were like two peas in a pod. Raven-haired, sleek-skinned and with an athletic build, they were popular throughout the cohort.

There was nothing welcoming about their manner tonight.

‘What do you want?’ demanded one.

Piso glanced at Vitellius, who raised his hands, palm outward. ‘There’s a meeting on, or so we heard. Wondered if we could listen in.’

‘I thought there might be some dice to be played too,’ offered Piso.

The twin who’d asked the question looked a little less aggressive. ‘Whose century are you in?’

‘Tullus is our boss,’ replied Piso, adding for good measure, ‘and a bloody hard taskmaster he is too.’

‘Like ’em all. Bastards,’ snarled the first twin.

‘Cocksuckers,’ added his brother. ‘In you go, if you can find space. Keep your lips stitched about what you hear, mind.’

‘Aye, aye.’ Muttering their thanks, Piso and Vitellius ducked down into the tent.

The press within was so great that they had to wriggle and use their shoulders just to get inside. Piso estimated that there were more than a dozen men present, in a tent made for eight. A tiny space had been left in the middle of the tent for some oil lamps, which lent an orange glow to the interior. As Piso sat down, cheek by jowl with Vitellius, he spied three soldiers from their century. He returned their greeting nods.

Someone was talking – a bony-faced, sunken-cheeked legionary whom Piso recognised – and pausing at regular intervals so that his words could be disseminated to those outside. Piso pricked up his ears, already worrying about what he’d hear.

‘It can’t be a coincidence, I say,’ declared Bony Face. ‘These things don’t happen together unless there’s a good reason. The last time I heard of standards turning to face the wrong way, against the wind, was before Drusus died, the gods rest his soul. That was a bad time, wasn’t it?’

Rumbles of agreement and muttered prayers met his comment.

‘Men in the First Cohort were on patrol yesterday, and got hammered by a shower of hailstones that were blood-red in colour,’ said Bony Face. ‘These are frightening times.’

‘So it is. I heard some lads from the Rapax went swimming in the Rhenus and saw shadowy figures among the trees on the far bank,’ said a soldier near the door. ‘They wasn’t tribesmen either.’

Piso didn’t know if he believed such tall tales, but with so many others rubbing at their phallic amulets and asking for the gods’ favour, it was hard not to feel rattled. Even Vitellius, the calmest of sorts, was frowning.

‘I’m telling you, it’s time to do something,’ said Bony Face. ‘Augustus was never going to give us what we deserve – what is owed to us. He was too busy penning his own biography and thinking about turning into a god.’ The laughter that followed was a mixture of amused and nervous, but no one told Bony Face to stop. ‘Tiberius needs to know that we soldiers can’t be taken for granted. We have to be treated right, eh? We’re entitled to proper pay, officers who aren’t corrupt slave drivers, and discharge when our service is up. Is that too much to ask for? Is it?’

‘No!’ the legionaries muttered back at him.

Grinning, Bony Face gestured with his hands. ‘Easy now, brothers. Keep it down. We don’t want the centurion or any of those other bastard officers coming to investigate.’

‘What can we do?’ demanded a soldier with lank grey hair. ‘I’ve been reminding my centurion for five years that my time is up. Because the records have been lost, I can’t prove it, so he laughs in my face.’

‘I was conscripted after the Saltus Teutoburgiensis,’ said another. ‘I shouldn’t have to serve a day over the time I was signed up to, but, oddly, my documents can’t be found either. If my centurion has his way, I’ll be in uniform until I’m fifty.’

A wave of outrage and similar accusations rendered it impossible to be heard for some time. Bony Face watched and listened with evident satisfaction, and waited until it had died down. ‘I will tell you what we’ll do,’ he said, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper.

Piso studied the faces around him – they were alive with anticipation. Bony Face was a natural orator, which made him a dangerous man.

‘If we’re to succeed, we will need not just every soldier in the Fifth, but those of the other legions too. Me and my comrades, we’ve been testing the water, so to speak, and the time is ripe. It’s hard to find a happy man in the whole cursed camp! Each of you will know someone in another legion. Go and talk to them – as you have been already. Tell them that we all stand together on this.’

Heads nodded; men smiled. They liked the sound of this. Piso felt sick.

‘Supposing the other legions do join us. What then?’ asked the lank-haired legionary. ‘The officers will only give us one answer, and it won’t be pleasant.’ Fear blossomed in many eyes, but before it could spread like the disease it was, Bony Face had begun to speak.

‘This for the officers!’ he hissed, miming a punch, and another. ‘And this!’ Now he rose, hunch-backed, and stamped on the ground with his hobnailed sandal. ‘If they still won’t listen, we’ll give them this .’ To Piso’s complete surprise, Bony Face simulated the stabbing action of a gladius , driving his arm back and forth a number of times. A low, animal roar met his actions, and Bony Face smiled.

It wasn’t a pleasant expression.

‘Choose who you talk to with care,’ he warned. ‘If the officers get wind of it, you’ll be whipped within a cunt hair of your life – and that’s if you’re lucky. It’s important to spread the word fast, though. Something like this can’t remain secret for long. Someone will blab, and our chance will be gone.’ His eyes roved from face to face. ‘Are you with me?’

‘Aye,’ answered every voice. Piso joined in as well, to avoid arousing suspicion. He noted Vitellius doing the same.

‘On your way then,’ ordered Bony Face. ‘There’s no time like the present. Meet me back here, tomorrow night at the same hour. Gods willing, we’ll soon have four legions to call on.’