Ben Kane: Eagles at War

After an uneventful first day, they had slept the night in a marching camp twenty miles from the Rhenus. Built during a long-since-forgotten campaign, it had been left in place for passing units to avail themselves of, and was popular among soldiers. Its solid earth ramparts and deep ditches meant an escape from their usual obligation of constructing a camp at the end of a day’s march. These lighter duties, and an uninterrupted night’s sleep, had ensured that the fourteen miles to Aliso had sped by. Using the regular stone markers at the side of the road, Tullus reckoned that they were exceeding four miles an hour. Being able to maintain that speed was expected of legionaries, but it wasn’t often insisted upon, because it wore men out fast. Yet when high spirits drove them to act in such a manner, as it was right now, Tullus wasn’t one to stand in their way.

He wouldn’t have admitted it to a soul apart from Fenestela, but the fast pace made him grateful for his mount. Tullus had taken to riding of recent times, because of his aching back and creaking joints. He would have coped today, but he’d have paid for it later. Most of his legionaries were fifteen years younger than he, or more.

Horse or no, Tullus was looking forward to reaching Aliso. Like the marching camp they had stayed in, it was favoured among legionaries, because of its size, and empty barracks. It too had been constructed during previous campaigns and was large enough to house a legion, but the usual garrison nowadays comprised a single cohort and two turmae of cavalry. Even a second cohort, the troops assigned to Lucius Caedicius, the newly arrived camp prefect, wouldn’t come close to filling the rows and rows of timbered barrack blocks. In Aliso, thought Tullus with anticipation, everyone could expect a bed for the night, and a solid roof over his head. Those small luxuries were to be appreciated, for on many patrols such things were a rarity.

‘Look out, brothers. Here comes the senior tribune again,’ announced a legionary several ranks in front.

Tullus felt a dart of irritation at the resulting straightening of backs, shifting of yokes and throwing back of shoulders. Tubero had been issuing reprimands of one kind or another at soldiers throughout the patrol, but he hadn’t commented on Tullus’ century. Yet. If it happened now, Tullus wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold his tongue.

He watched as Tubero came cantering down the road, his mount’s hooves throwing up little puffs of dust. His entourage of two staff officers and a scribe followed close behind. It was satisfying that he said nothing about Tullus’ legionaries.

Tubero slowed up at last. ‘Centurion.’

‘Sir. See anything of interest?’

‘We rode as far as the fort. It’s an impressive structure, and built in a good spot. It’s near the River Lupia, but high enough above it to have a range of vision all around.’

‘You’ve got the right of it there, sir,’ said Tullus, thinking a man would have to be blind not to notice its strength of position. ‘They’re expecting us then?’

‘I told the sentry to inform Lucius Caedicius of our imminent arrival.’ He cast an impatient eye at the ranks of passing legionaries, and his nostrils flared in the way that so annoyed Tullus. ‘That is, if these shirkers can be bothered to march at a respectable speed.’

Tullus had to bite his lip before he answered. ‘They’re covering more than four miles an hour, sir.’

‘Does the Eighteenth not pride itself on the quality of its soldiers?’

You pompous little prick, thought Tullus. ‘It does, sir.’

‘Then why aren’t they doing more than that, centurion?’

‘Because I haven’t asked them to, sir,’ replied Tullus. He didn’t need to add, ‘I’m the one who’s really in charge here.’ Even as Tubero’s mouth opened in outrage, Tullus interrupted, so only the tribune could hear. ‘It’s two miles and more to Aliso still. We’re on a routine patrol, sir, carrying non-urgent messages from Varus. There’s no need to push them any harder. Imagine – the gods forbid – that an emergency were to arise and they were too tired to march off in response. I’d never forgive myself. Would you, sir?’

Tubero gave Tullus a petulant look. ‘I suppose not. Leave them be then.’

‘Wise words, sir,’ said Tullus in a diplomatic tone.

An angry glance from Tubero. ‘There’s no reason why I should linger here. I’ll return to the camp and give Varus’ letters to Caedicius.’

‘Very good, sir,’ replied Tullus. Good riddance.

The legionary Marcus Piso and the seven others in his contubernium had been allocated a room at the far end of the barracks’ corridor. It was furthest from the centurion Tullus’ quarters, which pleased everyone. They wouldn’t escape his scrutiny, but there would be some warning of his approach. Piso, a tall man, came into the room last, having been the final member of the group to enter the building, which was situated some distance from Aliso’s main gate. He dumped his weapons in the tiny room opposite their bedchamber and went to find a bed. To his annoyance, the only spot that didn’t already have a soldier or some equipment on it was a top bunk. He rolled his eyes, and clambered up the two rungs to his bed. In the process, he knocked his head against the low ceiling, hard. Rolling on to the mattress, he groaned. ‘Jupiter’s sweaty arse crack.’

‘Take off your armour first, stupid,’ said one of his tent mates from the opposite bunk.

‘I wanted to rest my legs for a moment,’ Piso complained.

‘You’re tired after that short march?’ asked Vitellius, the man below him. He was an acerbic individual whom Piso didn’t like much, not least because Vitellius made him feel that he wasn’t yet part of the contubernium, or even, he’d said once, a real soldier.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Piso, bristling. ‘The idea of a bed was appealing, that’s all.’

‘It is to me too,’ came the reply. ‘But I thought to lose my mail shirt before I lay down.’

Piso rubbed the swelling lump on the top of his skull. ‘That was about the only part of me that didn’t hurt.’

‘Always complaining, aren’t you?’ jibed Vitellius.

Afer, one of four other veterans in the contubernium, and the one who’d been most decent to Piso since his arrival a few months before, weighed in. ‘That’s a little rich coming from you, Vitellius. I remember the time you caught crabs in Vetera’s cheapest brothel. You spent months moaning about it, and keeping us awake with your scratching.’

The laughter drowned out Vitellius’ sour rejoinder, and Piso gave Afer a grateful look. Afer, a hairy barrel of a man from one of the roughest parts of Mutina, winked back. Piso felt a rush of gratitude. He used the diversion of the general hilarity to get down from the bunk and return to the equipment store. He’d undone his belt and was attempting, without success, to shuck the mail shirt up on to his shoulders – from there it was easy to take off – when he sensed someone behind him. Thinking it was Vitellius, come to mock him further, he wheeled with bunched fists.

‘Easy, brother,’ said Afer, raising his hands.

‘Sorry. I thought it was-’

‘I know. Don’t mind Vitellius. He’s a bitter prick, but when it comes to a fight, he’s a good man to have beside you.’ Afer smiled at Piso’s disbelief. ‘It’s true. He saved my skin in Illyricum once when I’d already seen the ferryman poling his way across the Styx to pick me up. Killed two tribesmen, he did, and got himself wounded in the process. And before you ask, it wasn’t just because I was an old comrade. I’ve seen him do the same for new lads too. If you’re in his contubernium, he looks out for you, same as we all do. He’s just got an interesting sense of humour.’