Ben Kane - Hunting the Eagles

Once these tasks had been completed, he would rest.

Not before.

It was early, not long after dawn. Drops of dew winked and sparkled on the scrubby grass, and on every gorse bush and bog cotton plant. A quarter of a mile from the Roman camp, Piso and his comrades stood in dry-eyed silence around Vitellius’ corpse. Shovels lay close by. Their hands were black with mud, and sweat marked their faces: they had been digging his grave. At their feet, Vitellius was unrecognisable, a blanket-wrapped, human shape tied with strips of leather. Despite his shroud, he was still their friend. Their brother. No one wanted to make the first move.

‘It doesn’t seem right to bury him in the middle of nowhere,’ said Piso. They been arguing about this since the day before, when Vitellius had died. ‘He should be laid in the military graveyard at Vetera, beside other soldiers. I’d like to lie alongside him one day.’

‘I wish the same for myself, but that’s not the way it works.’ Metilius sighed. ‘Even if Tullus let us, there’s the small matter of transporting ’Tellius’ body back to the Rhenus.’

Heads bent in resignation, but Piso wouldn’t give in. ‘We could make a litter, as you did for me. Drag him home on it.’

‘That’d break every kind of regulation. Tullus is sympathetic – you heard what he said about Vitellius before we left the camp – but he couldn’t allow that. Every contubernium which had lost a comrade would want to do the same, and then where would we be?’ demanded Metilius. ‘Arminius might have been beaten, but we’re in enemy territory still. The army has to march in combat formation, Piso.’

‘I know, I know. But Vitellius saved my arse in Aliso, when I got jumped by soldiers from another legion, and I repaid him in the forest. Since then, we’ve looked out for each other. He was my brother.’ Words failed Piso, and his tears began to flow again.

‘Fine words,’ said Metilius, his voice gruff. ‘’Tellius had a caustic sense of humour; some would say he was sour, even. I was never quite sure how to take him myself, but I do know that he was a loyal friend. When things went to shit, there was no better soldier to have by your side. We’ll miss you, ’Tellius. Brother.’

Throat closed with emotion, Piso listened as the others muttered their goodbyes. ‘Farewell, brother.’ ‘Swift passage to the other side, brother.’

‘Let’s get it over with,’ directed Metilius. He slid a rope under Vitellius’ body.

Piso wasn’t ready to take leave of his friend, but the rest were easing lines under him too. With a lump in his throat, Piso moved to help. Six of them – the entire contubernium now – could lower him down in pairs. When the ropes were in place, Metilius called, ‘One, two, three. Up!’ and they raised Vitellius’ corpse to knee level. Shuffling to the graveside, they paused and looked in. The lowest point of the hole was a black, oozing morass. It was uninviting, even as the resting place for a dead man. Unhappy glances were exchanged.

They had no option, thought Piso, mastering his grief by force of will. His eyes moved around his comrades. ‘’Tellius has already crossed the Styx. This is just somewhere for his bones to lie, to keep the wild beasts away, and the savages from despoiling them.’

Reluctant nods followed his comment. ‘Ready?’ called Piso.

They let the lines move through their hands little by little, easing Vitellius into his grave. Soft plashes and a slackening of the tension signalled his reaching the bottom. Piso knew that his friend was dead, gone – Vitellius had bled out in front of him – yet tugging out the muddied rope was one of the hardest things he had ever done. It felt like the worst kind of abandonment. On impulse, Piso took the gold torque from his purse and held it up. He had taken the valuable ornament from around Vitellius’ neck because his friend would not have wanted it to go to waste, as it were. Now, Piso wasn’t so sure that felt right. ‘Will I drop this in?’

Everyone stared.

‘He’s got a coin to pay the ferryman,’ said Metilius after a moment.

‘It won’t be any use to him,’ declared one of the others.

Every head was shaking – no – and, relenting, Piso said, ‘It’ll buy ’Tellius a headstone and us enough wine to float a boat. Maybe whores as well, if we’re not too extravagant. He’d approve, wouldn’t he?’

‘Of the headstone, yes. Don’t be so sure about the rest. ’Tellius kept his fingers tight on his purse,’ said Metilius with a wicked grin. ‘Which means we should sell it and spend the money anyway. ’Tellius’ moaning and whingeing – that we’re carousing at his expense – will carry all the way from the underworld.’

Everyone laughed, and like that it was settled. Piso tucked away the torque.

Metilius indicated that the rest should fetch their shovels, and thrust one into Piso’s hands. Trying not to think, Piso bent his back and eased a load of earth on to the tool’s flat surface. He waited until several comrades had heaved shovelfuls into the grave before doing the same. A soft thud marked its landing. Piso wanted to peer in, but he couldn’t bear to see his friend’s shroud-wrapped body disappearing under clods of earth. He picked up another load. In went the soil, mixing with the others’ efforts.

They worked in grim silence until the spot where Vitellius’ body lay was nothing more than a rectangle of fresh-turned earth. Metilius and Piso patted it down with their shovels, and one of the others erected the oblong wooden marker they’d fashioned. On the front, Piso had used the white-hot tip of a dagger to scratch Vitellius’ name and age. In the line below, his century, cohort and legion were recorded.

It didn’t seem enough, Piso thought, but there was no room for more writing. Worse, the elements would destroy the marker within a couple of years. Vitellius’ grave would then be lost forever.

It seemed a cruel fate.

Three days later, and Piso was exhausted. Fine weather, better conditions underfoot and the soldiers’ burning desire to reach Vetera had seen the army cover twenty-five, maybe even twenty-seven miles that day. Tullus’ cohort had been on camp construction duty, which had meant two hours of digging at the end of their energy-sapping march. Now Piso and his comrades sat on their blankets around their fire, dull-eyed, slump-shouldered, waiting for the miserable broth that was to be their supper. Despite the length of their journey and the lack of food and shelter, it had been a pleasant day. There had been no sign of the enemy whatsoever. Another two to three marches, and they’d reach the bridge over the Rhenus, or so the rumours went. Piso was relieved, yet he kept thinking of Vitellius, stiff and cold in his rough grave.

‘Will it be long?’ asked Metilius, jerking his chin at the pot hanging over the flames.

Piso leaned forward and stirred again. He tasted a mouthful, and added a pinch of salt. ‘Be another while. You can’t rush good cooking, as my mother always used to say.’

‘Funny man,’ said Metilius with a droll chuckle. ‘Let’s sort out ’Tellius’ stuff while we wait.’

Conversation around the fire stopped. All eyes bore down on Metilius as he unwrapped three blankets they’d taken turns to carry that day. The first contained Vitellius’ rusted mail shirt and the sweat-marked, ripe-smelling padded garment that he’d worn underneath. In the second were his arming cap and helmet, his baldric, belt and ‘apron’, and his well-used sword. Cooking utensils and personal effects filled the third.

Every item made Piso’s mind spin with memories of his friend. Vitellius gearing up of a morning, complaining about the weight of his armour, talking to himself as he prepared the group’s food, or combing his thinning hair with an old, double-sided comb. Piso checked over his shoulder, almost expecting to see Vitellius, to hear his outraged demands that they leave his bloody kit alone.