Ben Kane: Hunting the Eagles

He heard nothing, and his sorrow bubbled up afresh.

Metilius laid his own helmet on the blanket and picked up Vitellius’ one, which was lighter and of a more modern design. ‘That’ll do,’ he said in a quiet voice.

Grief-stricken, unwilling to participate at first, Piso watched as, one by one, his comrades exchanged pieces of their equipment for items that had belonged to Vitellius. His folding knife and spoon – a rarity – went first, then his large bronze pot, which was good for making stew. Someone else took his belt and apron, another his strigil, ear scoop and nail cleaner.

‘Your turn,’ said Metilius to Piso.

Piso reached over and took first Vitellius’ comb, which for some odd reason would remind him most of his friend, and then his sword.

‘’Tellius was going to get rid of that. The blade is pitted to Hades and back,’ said Metilius.

‘The hilt is still good. The gods alone know how he afforded it,’ retorted Piso, his fingers trailing over the yellowed ivory, his mind bright with images of Vitellius. ‘I can have a new blade forged. Make the thing as good as new.’

‘’Tellius would have liked that,’ said Metilius, the others’ nods mirroring his approval.

They sat and stared for a time at the objects that remained, and then by common, unspoken consent, the blankets were rolled up again and placed to one side. The unwanted items were of no further use; they’d be left behind in the morning, when they marched out. Vitellius’ memory would live on in their hearts and minds, and in the pieces of kit which each of them had chosen.

Piso’s grief, razor-sharp since his friend’s unexpected death, had been eased somehow by the division of possessions. Surprised, relieved, he glanced around, sensing that the experience had also helped his tent mates.

Vitellius was gone, but, like Saxa and the rest, he would never be forgotten.

Tullus’ horse had been lost with the baggage train, forcing him to march from the camp where they’d routed Arminius’ tribesmen. His knees were killing him as he trudged along, and there was a deep-rooted ache in the base of his spine, yet nothing could have shifted him from his place at the front of the cohort. The Fifth Legion was in the vanguard today, and Tullus’ had reached a gravelled road upwards of an hour before. The time he and his unit had spent on the paved surface meant the front cohorts had to be nearing the first bridge. Vetera was close, the pain almost at an end. Twenty-something miles they’d come since dawn, so the legions could reach the Rhenus and, beyond it, their camp. Despite the punishing march made on empty bellies, the soldiers’ complaints had been few and far between.

Morale had been high since their overwhelming victory, thought Tullus with satisfaction. It had continued to rise as first one day, and then two and three, had passed without further attacks. Reports from the scouts the previous evening, suggesting there were no tribesmen for miles around, had been greeted with glee. It seemed ever more probable that Arminius and his allies had given up for the year. Tullus’ own spirits grew more buoyant by the hour, but he had remained on guard. They weren’t home yet.

Before this, their final push, he had had words with the cohort’s centurions. Discipline was to be maintained, every able-bodied soldier to be ready for combat. The men could sing, but until their feet hit the western bank, everyone was to remain alert. With open ground on either side of their route and the countryside empty, he had perhaps been over-strict, he thought, but better that than being surprised again by Arminius.

The building used by the sentries who monitored the river crossing hove into view, and Tullus’ heart leaped. ‘Arminius won’t be putting in an appearance now, brothers. Bridge in sight!’

A loud, rolling cheer met his cry. Even Piso, whose morale had been low since the death of his comrade Vitellius, seemed happier.

Tullus felt a broad smile ease on to his own face. They had made it. No more of his men would die this year. His legion’s eagle hadn’t been recovered yet, but it would be, during next year’s campaign. Arminius would pay then too – the ultimate price.

Closer they came. The sentries, two centuries strong, were lined up along the roadside, calling out to the returning soldiers. ‘Welcome home, brothers!’

‘You’re brave men, all of you!’

‘The gods be praised!’

Tullus returned the salute of the units’ centurions, who seemed a little embarrassed. He would find out later how the alarmed sentries, thinking the approaching Fifth was a horde of Germans, had begun to hack at the bridge with axes. Only the intervention of Agrippina, Germanicus’ heavily pregnant wife, had prevented them from destroying it.

Moments later, Tullus was delighted to see Agrippina standing by the approach to the bridge. Regal, calm-faced and melodic-voiced, she was garbed in a dress woven from the finest wool. Red coral and gold jewellery graced her throat and wrists; her hair was arranged in the latest fashion. A pair of body servants and several bodyguards hovered in the background. Agrippina looked every part the Roman matron, every part the royal. She was a shrewd woman to put in an appearance here, thought Tullus. The troops would love her presence.

Agrippina’s voice carried as they drew near. ‘I bid you welcome, brave soldiers of Rome. Long has been your journey, many your trials, and severe. Yet you return victorious, having conquered the savage tribes who threaten our empire. Cross the bridge, return to your barracks. Food and wine await you there, laid on by the grace of my husband, Germanicus.’

The legionaries shouted their delight.

‘Has Germanicus come back, good lady?’ asked Tullus as he came alongside.

A shadow passed over Agrippina’s face. ‘Not yet.’

‘The gods bless him and keep him safe. He will be here soon, you’ll see,’ said Tullus.

‘GER-MAN-I-CUS! GER-MAN-I-CUS! GER-MAN-I-CUS!’ shouted his soldiers. The refrain was taken up by the troops behind, and soon the air resonated with the hypnotic chant.

When Tullus looked back, Agrippina was smiling.

Things grew better as they came off the second bridge into the vicus. To Tullus’ delight, Artio was waiting in the cheering crowd with Sirona and Scylax. With a squeal of joy, she came running towards him, Scylax at her heels, his tail swishing the air.

‘We had news that the army had been ambushed. I was so scared,’ Artio cried, throwing her arms around Tullus’ waist and walking alongside him. ‘But you’re here. You’re alive.’

‘I am,’ said Tullus, a sudden thickness in his voice. A little self-conscious, he stroked her hair. ‘It’s good to see you, but away with you now. I have duties to attend to.’

Artio pulled away, making a face. ‘You’ll come to the inn tonight?’

Tullus was aware that every soldier in gods knew how many ranks was listening to their conversation. He was a private man, and under normal circumstances he would have brushed Artio off. But this wasn’t a normal day. Not since his return from Aliso six years before had Tullus felt such overwhelming relief. They had come through the eye of the storm, stared death in the face, and most of them had survived. His men were at his back, safe. Artio was there, fresh-faced, beautiful and ecstatic to see him. Sirona seemed pleased too, and by the gods, she was looking fine. Life was good .

‘Aye,’ Tullus said, reaching out to touch Artio’s cheek, and throwing Sirona a smile. ‘Give me a few hours, and I’ll be there.’

‘You promise?’ demanded Artio.

Someone close by – Piso, or Metilius? – snickered.

Tullus was so happy that he didn’t care. ‘I swear it,’ he said.