Ben Kane - Eagles at War

‘If there was a way to guarantee victory, one priest said, they’d be with us, but without that, it pays to be prudent.’

‘Understandable. Nothing can be guaranteed in this life.’

‘Except death, and Roman taxes.’

There was a bitter tinge to their laughter. ‘If the Usipetes won’t join us, the other tribes might not either,’ Maelo said at length.

‘Aye.’

There was a silence, during which Arminius’ face grew stern and determined. When he spoke, his voice was granite hard. ‘We have the priest Segimundus’ support. His words, and his dream of the burning eagle, will convince many to join us. I know it.’

Tullus strode up to the principia in the centre of the camp. Recognising him, if not by his face, then by his centurion’s crested helmet, the sentries guarding the headquarters saluted and stood back to allow him entrance. In the passageway beyond, Tullus returned the greetings of first one officer he knew, and then another. He was further delayed in the courtyard, waylaid by one of the Eighteenth’s tribunes, a talkative type who liked to do things by the book. Bored to tears by the tribune’s droning, Tullus could do nothing but endure. He managed to extricate himself in the end, promising the tribune that he would order spare winter cloaks for his cohort at the first opportunity, and check that the other senior centurions had done so too.

It wasn’t unknown for the tribune to remember other ‘vital’ tasks the moment one had left his company, so Tullus hurried to put a party of document-carrying clerks between them. Affecting a nonchalant walk, he made it to the safety of the colonnaded walkway before the clerks broke away, one by one, into various offices. At that stage, Tullus was far enough from the tribune to be able to saunter around the passage to the great hall, the front of which formed the courtyard’s entire back wall.

The building’s massive, iron-bound doors stood wide open, as they did every day from dawn to dusk. They were only closed during the hours of darkness, and when important meetings were being held. The sentries here were present more to reflect the hall’s importance than the need for security. Tullus returned their salutes with a nod, and entered.

The vast room within was dominated by a double row of massive columns that ran from left to right, holding up the high roof. In the spaces between, larger-than-life-sized painted statues of Augustus and his immediate family had been placed. There were few people about. Three ordinary legionaries in belted tunics were sweeping the floor. A priest was praying before the largest effigy of the emperor. Puffed up with his own importance, a quartermaster stalked past, accompanied by two soldiers carrying a heavy chest. No one gave Tullus, a high-ranking officer, more than a cursory glance, which suited him well. He was not here for conversation, or to be accosted by those higher, or lower, in rank. As was his custom before going on patrol, he was here to pay his respects to his legion’s eagle.

Placing his boots down with care, so that his hobs didn’t make too much noise, he made his way across the mosaic floor to the back wall and the shrine. A pair of legionaries stood guard at its entrance, one either side of the double stone archway. They stiffened to attention. ‘Centurion,’ one murmured.

‘Is anyone inside?’ asked Tullus, peering in. It was often impossible, but unspoken protocol dictated that praying soldiers should be left alone within the sacred space.

‘You’re in luck, sir. The aquilifer has just left.’ The soldier whose job it was to carry the eagle checked on the standard once daily.

Pleased to have the place to himself, Tullus walked inside. Light, cast by a multitude of well-placed oil lamps, glittered off the stuccoed walls and the ceiling, and reflected off gold and silver emblems – images of the emperor, discs, human hands, spear tips, laurel wreaths – on the dozens of standards that were propped up against the back wall. To the left and right of the standards were the embroidered cloth banners used by detachments from the legion, and the imposing cavalry standards. In the centre of all, with a space on either side to indicate its status, the legion’s eagle had been placed in a special rosewood stand. A physical embodiment of everything that was noble about the Eighteenth, it was an awe-inspiring sight.

Compared to most, Tullus was not superstitious; much of the time, he didn’t place a lot of faith in the gods either. In this room, he felt different. A sense of reverence fell over him now, as it did with each visit. The deep silence helped – no one spoke in the shrine unless there was great need – and so too did the dazzling light cast by the abundant precious metal on display. The standard of a man’s century and his cohort were also causes for pride, as were the battle awards affixed to their staffs. Yet the main reason for Tullus to bow, and for the hairs to stand on his neck, was the overwhelming sense of majesty emitted by the eagle.

Cast from solid gold, and larger than a man could hold in both hands, the eagle was depicted lying forward on its breast. A golden wreath encircled its almost-touching wings, which were raised straight up behind its body. Its open beak and piercing stare gave off a real sense of arrogance. I know my purpose, and what I represent, it seemed to say. Do you, Tullus? Will you follow me, even unto death? Will you protect me at all costs?

I will, he thought, closing his eyes, as I would have done since the first day I enlisted. I live only to honour you, and my legion. I swear this by every god in the pantheon.

Tullus’ heart thudded in his chest, ten, twenty, fifty times. There was no answer from the eagle. There never was, but a gradual sense of acceptance stole over him, as if his promise had been received, as if the eagle would watch over him on the impending patrol. He looked up.

You are a true soldier of the Eighteenth, the eagle’s eyes seemed to say.

You are one of mine.

That was all Tullus ever wanted to be.

Tramp, tramp, tramp . Scchhhkkk-thunk. Scchhhkkk-thunk. The comforting sounds, of hobnails striking the road surface, and of mail shirts knocking off the back of shields, filled Tullus’ ears. He was riding alongside his century, which was positioned third along the column, a vantage point that allowed him to ascertain – should he need to – what was going on at the front and back, and to either side. Separated by strips of cultivation, German longhouses dotted the landscape. Boys stood watch over small groups of sheep and cattle. At the edge of a copse, a dozen bare-chested men toiled together, felling trees.

This was the second day of their patrol, and they were nearing Aliso. Things had gone well thus far. From the start, the new tribune Tubero had been as keen as a leashed hunting dog with the scent of game in its nostrils, but he had listened – albeit with reluctance – to Tullus’ advice. Moreover, he had followed it, which had been a relief to Tullus. Varus had sent a note on the eve of their departure, ordering Tullus to ensure that ‘nothing untoward’ happened while they were gone. Despite Tubero’s seniority, there was no doubt on whose shoulders the responsibility for the patrol fell.

Tullus didn’t know where Tubero was at that exact moment. Although that meant he had no one watching him, that the potential for trouble existed, oddly Tullus did not care. There was something about Tubero that ruffled his feathers the wrong way. He couldn’t decide if it was the tribune’s condescending manner or the faint air of disbelief he exuded every time Tullus expressed an opinion – or whether it was something else altogether. When he wasn’t about, Tullus could feel less irritated, even if he then grew a little concerned about what Tubero might be up to. Don’t worry, he thought. The young cock’s only riding about as if he’s the emperor, impressing the natives with his finery while he makes derogatory comments about them under his breath.