Ben Kane - Eagles at War

As each man passed Tullus, he took great care to square his shoulders and keep his shoulder-carried javelin at the right angle. Keen-eyed, expressionless, Tullus observed how good their equipment looked, and whether it showed any signs of wear, or damage. He’d spotted most of the problems when the legionaries had assembled outside their stone barracks: a loose armour plate here; a helmet cheekpiece missing its iron tie ring there. As then, none of it mattered enough to halt their progress. They’d been chastised, he thought, and would fix their kit upon their return. That, or they’d feel his vitis , vine cane, across their shoulders.

Now and again, Tullus’ attention strayed to the camp’s impressive fortifications. His home had been within for a decade and a half, and he wasn’t yet tired of appreciating the defences. Everything about them exuded confidence, permanence and the power of Rome. First came the deep double ditch, with the spiked branches at the bottom of each. Behind those was the earthen rampart, built with the spoil from the ditches. It was taller than the loftiest cavalryman. The stone wall that sat atop it was even taller, and ran around the camp’s entire perimeter.

Flashes of sunlight marked the sentries pacing to and fro on the rampart’s walkway. Those who were in the twin towers spanning the gate observed Tullus with a faint air of superiority, their height and his patrol duty giving them immunity to any potential reprimand. Tullus’ lips twitched with amusement. He’d acted much the same way as a young low-ranker, a lifetime before. As long as the sentries remained alert – and they appeared to be – he didn’t care.

Even in these peaceful times, outside a camp containing a legion, it paid to be watchful. That was how he approached life, how he approached routine duties such as this. No one had had a problem with tribesmen this side of the river in years, but every time his legionaries marched beyond the walls, on duty, they – and he – were armed and equipped for battle.

Tullus was a solid man; middle-aged, but in excellent physical shape. Under his centurion’s crested helmet and the felt liner that sat beneath it, he had short brown hair. A long jaw didn’t stop him from being good-looking; nor did the pattern of scars that marked his body. He jerked his head as his optio, Marcus Crassus Fenestela, drew level. They paced together to the front of the unit, their gaze roaming over the tramping legionaries.

As Tullus walked, he studied Fenestela sidelong. It amused him that he and Fenestela were such physical opposites. Where he was solid, Fenestela was thin; where he was brawny, Fenestela was wiry. Fenestela’s auburn, curly hair was longer than regulation cut, and his features were, as Tullus liked to joke, uneven. His ugliness wasn’t helped by his bushy red beard. Tullus didn’t give a shit about Fenestela’s appearance, however. He and his optio had served together for many years. They had saved each other’s lives on numerous occasions, and trusted each other inside and out.

‘Happy?’ Tullus asked at length.

‘Aye, sir,’ Fenestela replied, his keen eyes darting over the column. ‘They look all right.’

‘Even the green ones?’ asked Tullus as they drew alongside two ranks of newish recruits. He was amused: although the soldiers’ helmets and kit shone from polishing, and their gait was satisfactory, they were careful not to catch his eye.

‘They’re coming along,’ Fenestela murmured.

‘Look at Piso. He’s got mismatched feet, or I’m no judge.’ Tullus watched the tall soldier in the second rank of recruits. Despite the fact that he was furthest from Tullus, it was easy to spot his rolling step, the shield hanging at an awkward angle on his back.

‘He’s learning, sir,’ said Fenestela. ‘Another few months and he’ll pass muster.’

‘Aye.’ Content that Piso, who’d made it through the tough initial training, would go on to become a decent soldier, Tullus’ gaze strayed to the shining silver band that was the Rhenus. The river came from behind them to the right and ran parallel to the road at a distance of a couple of hundred paces. Half a mile onward, it flowed past the vicus , or civilian settlement, that served the massive military camp – their legion’s base – to their rear. The watercourse’s span was interrupted close to the vicus by large islands covered in trees, making it impossible to see the far bank, as they could from their current position. Germania Magna began on the other side, and it was where they were heading.

Discerning the direction of his gaze, Fenestela scowled. ‘I don’t like going over there, sir,’ he muttered.

‘You always say that, Fenestela. Any tribes still hostile to Rome live a hundred miles to the east, or more. The ones who live closer know better than to resist our rule. They’ve been taught enough lessons over the last twenty years.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Fenestela’s tone revealed his doubt.

Tullus didn’t comment. It was a topic that they had argued over countless times. According to Fenestela, he was overly trusting. Tullus thought his optio far too cynical. The longer Rome’s rule lay upon a land, the less likely it was that there would be trouble. There hadn’t been a major uprising close to the Rhenus for almost five years. If it continued, he mused, he could end his career in peacetime. That prospect appealed now more than it ever had – the price, perhaps, of seeing so many of his soldiers die in battle.

Despite the attraction of retirement, Tullus knew that he would sometimes miss the insanity of combat, when the blood pounded in his ears, and the men around him felt closer than brothers. He increased his pace, indicating that Fenestela should walk with him.

‘Are we taking the usual route today, sir?’ asked a soldier from the depths of the ranks.

‘We are. Over the bridge at the vicus to the other side. Out the east road, alongside the River Lupia for about ten miles, and back again.’ Tullus saw the sideways glances of the legionaries, and heard the low grumbling that followed. ‘I make it just over twenty miles. An easy march,’ he added, winking at Fenestela.

Fenestela returned the wink. ‘Without their full kit they’ll want to run it, sir.’

More muttering.

‘That’s an idea,’ said Tullus. ‘Maybe we’ll double-time it back to the camp.’

As he’d expected, someone took the bait. ‘There’s no need for that, sir, surely?’ called a voice from another rank, rendering the speaker invisible.

‘I don’t know,’ declared Tullus, with a glance at Fenestela.

The faceless soldier and several others groaned.

‘Don’t give me reason to insist on it,’ warned Tullus as Fenestela chuckled.

The complaints died away fast.

Tullus wasn’t going to force his men to return to the camp at that pace, but there was no harm in them thinking it might happen. The uncertainty kept them on their toes. The last ranks of the century marched past once more, and he conferred with the tesserarius , the most junior of his officers. No one was lagging. Content, he and Fenestela trotted back up the patrol, resuming their positions in turn.

The straggling development of houses, businesses and stables that formed the outskirts of the vicus drew near. They harked back to the settlement’s humble beginnings. Nowadays, most wanted to forget those rough times. The council talked of little but knocking the shacks and brothels to the ground, of grand new building projects and of a wall around the settlement’s perimeter. Part of Tullus would be sorry when these inevitable changes came, because any sense that this was the frontier would depart with them. This part of Germania would be no different to anywhere in Italy, or Hispania, and the idea that one day citified dandies might look down their noses at him from the tables of a pricey inn stuck in his throat like a fish bone.