Hunting the Eagles (30 page)

Tullus’ eagerness to move on wasn’t echoed by the ordinary soldiers. He couldn’t blame them. While there hadn’t been much fighting, or many casualties, they were deep in enemy territory. Secure from attack in the huge encampment, the legionaries had been able to let down their guard, even if there weren’t the rations they’d have liked. Strict as ever, Tullus hadn’t let his men get complacent – each century in the cohort had to train or march for at least half of every day. ‘You’re not in barracks, you pieces of shit,’ he told them as they stumbled, yawning, from their tents at dawn. ‘Every man, woman and child for a hundred miles wants us dead. If you’re not at the top of your game every moment of every day, some motherless sheep-humper will nail your head to a tree.’

HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!

Just like that, the barritus sounded in Tullus’ head. His ears rang with his men’s screams, the rushing sound of inward-flying spears and the crack of releasing slingshots. Rain sheeted in from the black clouds lowering overhead, and he could feel the gritty, blood-soaked mud working its way between his toes. Another legionary went down, struck by an enemy spear. Fenestela was bawling orders to close that fucking gap, and Tullus could hear his own voice, cracked and raw-throated, telling his soldiers to stand firm. ‘Hold the line, or we’re all dead men!’

‘Centurion?’

Tullus wiped a hand across his eyes, and was grateful, despite his earlier scorn, to see the merchant, sweaty-faced and tunic-stained, before him rather than a spear-wielding warrior. Yet the man was so repulsive, he couldn’t help barking, ‘What?’

‘Are you well, sir?’

‘I am, curse you. Why?’ Tullus shot a look at Tubero and the auxiliary officer, who were next nearest. They didn’t appear to have noticed anything untoward, which was an immense relief. He could imagine the type of comment Tubero in particular would make.

The merchant stepped back, his smile fading. ‘You were muttering to yourself.’

‘Nonsense.’ Tullus gave the man his best centurion’s stare, and was pleased when he moved further away. Tullus again fell to brooding about the battle. They were so close to where it had taken place. He didn’t have a map, and had only hazy memories of the countryside that Degmar had guided him through on their way to Aliso, but Tullus had recognised a number of landmarks during the previous days’ training marches. The scouts had also reported that the battlefield lay nearby. The close proximity of the bones of so many men Tullus had known wasn’t helping his sleep either, if truth be told. His scalp prickled. Did Germanicus want to hear his account of the ambush again? Perhaps—

‘Senior Centurion Tullus!’ An imperious-faced staff officer stood at the tent’s main entrance. He called again, ‘Senior Centurion Tullus!’

Tullus lifted a hand. ‘That would be me, sir.’

‘The imperial governor is waiting.’

Used to being passed over in favour of citizens, the auxiliary’s expression remained impassive, but the merchant let out a resigned sigh. Passing an irate Tubero, Tullus kept a straight face. Inside, he was roaring with laughter. Screw you, you whoreson, he thought. Reaching the staff officer, Tullus saluted. ‘Ready, sir.’

‘There must be some mistake!’

Tubero’s screech made the staff officer turn. ‘Sir?’

‘I am a legate!’ Tubero cried. ‘This man is only a centurion.’

‘A senior centurion, sir,’ Tullus corrected in the politest of voices, revelling in how his comment made Tubero’s flush deepen.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said the staff officer to Tubero. ‘The governor is aware that you are here. He has ordered that Tullus attend him.’

Tubero’s mouth, which had been open, snapped shut.

‘Have you any message for the governor, sir?’ asked the staff officer in a solicitous tone.

‘I—’ began Tubero, and hesitated. A heartbeat later, he muttered, ‘I will wait.’

‘As you wish, sir.’ The staff officer saluted before regarding Tullus, who could have sworn he raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘These senior officers.’ Then he inclined his head. ‘Follow me, centurion.’

Tullus shot a look at Tubero, but he was glaring into the distance. Tullus’ pleasure wasn’t even a little lessened.

The staff officer led him through a spacious, well-appointed antechamber in which a great number of clerks sat writing at desks. Slaves hovered about in the background, waiting to be given errands. No one paid any notice to Tullus, or his guide. The next two partitioned areas were similar grand workspaces for the staff officer and his colleagues. Here Tullus attracted some curious looks, which made him wonder again what Germanicus had in store for him.

‘You were at the Saltus Teutoburgiensis, I heard,’ said the staff officer, as if he’d been reading Tullus’ mind. There was respect in his voice, unlike most of those who’d commented in the years since. ‘You got some of your soldiers out.’

Old bitterness washed over Tullus. ‘Not enough of them.’

‘You did more than anyone I’ve heard of. Even Tubero only saved eight or nine men.’

Tullus held back a furious rebuttal – it had been an optio of the Seventeenth who’d rescued Tubero and the soldiers – with a savage bite to the inside of his cheek. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, so he grunted rather than speak a reply.

The staff officer hadn’t noticed. ‘Was it as bad as they say?’

‘Ten times worse,’ grated Tullus.

‘It will be an honour to visit the place,’ said the staff officer, adding, ‘I don’t hold with those who say it’ll bring bad luck upon us. Even if it’s years late, our dead deserve to be buried.’

This unexpected revelation had Tullus still struggling for a reply when they came to a halt before a final partition. A pair of impassive-faced bodyguards stood before it. Both looked as solid as granite.

‘Senior Centurion Tullus, Seventh Cohort of the Fifth, to see the governor,’ announced the staff officer.

The bodyguards’ eyes roamed up and down Tullus. One of them made a non-committal noise that could have meant anything from ‘Yes, sir’ to ‘I don’t give a shit’ before he vanished within. Tullus was used to this reaction from very senior officers’ guards, but he had never liked it. When the second man focused on him again, Tullus returned the stare with a flinty one of his own. Old I might be, compared to you, but I’d still give you a run for your money, you big pile of shit, he thought.

‘The governor will see you now.’ The first bodyguard had returned. He held aside the curtain.

The staff officer indicated Tullus should enter.

Tullus felt as nervous as he had when Germanicus had recognised him at Tiberius’ triumph. Eyes fixed ahead, he stamped in the way he did on the parade ground: lifting his legs with his shoulders back and chest out. He came to attention before Germanicus, who was sitting behind a rosewood desk with a silver-inlaid top. Documents were piled in front of him; an inkwell and a simple iron stylus sat by his right hand. He looked older, and more tired, than Tullus had ever seen him, but the air of command was still there in his eyes and the firm set of his chin.

‘Senior Centurion Tullus.’ His tone was warm.

‘Sir!’

‘No one is to disturb us,’ Germanicus said to the bodyguard. ‘At ease, Tullus. Have a seat.’

‘My mail, on the wood, sir,’ protested Tullus. The steel rings scratched anything they touched.

‘Sit,’ ordered Germanicus. ‘The chair is unimportant.’

The ebony chair looked as if it had cost a small fortune, but Tullus wasn’t about to argue with one of the most powerful men in the empire. Gripping his scabbard so it didn’t get caught behind him, he sat. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Germanicus waved at the jug on the dresser to his right. ‘Wine?’

Tullus would have declined – even though he’d met Germanicus a number of times, he wanted his wits about him – but the staff officer’s words had set his stomach to roiling. ‘I will, sir. Thank you.’ His discomfort was added to as Germanicus rose and picked up the jug. ‘Allow me, sir,’ Tullus said, half standing.

Germanicus laughed. ‘Sit. I’m well able to pour wine.’

Discomfited, Tullus watched as Germanicus filled two elegant blue glasses, handing one to Tullus and keeping one for himself.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tullus, admiring the outer surface of his glass, which was decorated with sparring gladiators.

‘A nice piece, eh?’

‘The likenesses are excellent, sir.’

‘So they should be, the price they cost each.’ Germanicus’ eyebrows rose as Tullus’ hold on his glass became even more delicate. ‘Drink, centurion, and don’t worry about the glass.’

Reassured, Tullus tried a sip. The wine was perhaps the finest he’d ever had – deep-flavoured, dry and earthy, with echoes of roses and truffles.

‘Do you like it?’ Germanicus’ face was amused.

‘Is it that obvious, sir?’

‘You look like a man dying of thirst.’

‘I have never tasted better, sir.’ Tullus set the vessel down.

‘Drink, man, drink! You’ve earned it.’ Germanicus took a swallow from his own glass.

Tullus relished his second mouthful even more than the first. ‘Delicious, sir.’

Germanicus seemed satisfied. ‘You’ve seen the Nineteenth’s eagle?’

‘I paid my respects at the shrine in the headquarters, sir.’ Wanting privacy, Tullus had lingered long after the initial rush of senior officers. Scratched, its original staff broken, and missing several lightning bolts, the eagle had still exuded a palpable majesty. Once alone, it hadn’t taken long for his grief to bubble to the surface. On his knees, Tullus had wept. He had cried for the dead soldiers of his century. For those of his cohort, and the entire Eighteenth. For the rest of Varus’ army. For his legion’s lost eagle. For Artio’s mother and even for poor, misguided Varus. For the shame of it all. He had even wept for himself – that he had survived when so many had not. That he had failed his men during the ambush by not saving more of them. Maybe I should have died there, Tullus thought, not for the first time.

‘It must have grieved you to see it.’ Germanicus’ voice was soft.

‘I was glad and sorry at the same time, sir, if you know what I mean.’

‘You must wish it had been the Eighteenth’s eagle that was recovered.’

‘Aye, sir,’ said Tullus with a sigh.

Germanicus thumped the desk with a fist. ‘Your eagle
will
be found. This is just the start.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’

A silence fell, during which Tullus’ mind spun in ever faster circles, trying to guess the reason for Germanicus’ summons. Tullus couldn’t take the suspense for long. ‘I’m thinking that you didn’t order me here for my opinion of your wine, sir.’

Germanicus guffawed. Unsure what was going on, Tullus didn’t join in.

‘If only more of my officers were cut from your cloth, Tullus. They fawn and creep before me, when all I want them to do is speak their minds.’

‘I see, sir,’ said Tullus, as non-committally as he could. Who can blame them? he reflected. Despite Germanicus’ words, it paid to be careful what one said to members of the royal family. Utter the wrong opinion and a man’s career – even his life – could be ended just like that.

‘You are right, of course,’ said Germanicus. ‘I asked you here for a favour.’

How the rich and powerful like to make it seem as if we have a choice, thought Tullus. Despite Germanicus’ overtures of friendship, he was under no illusions about their relationship. He was the servant, and Germanicus the master. And yet with the staff officer’s words fresh in his mind, he wondered if Germanicus’ request might not be altogether bad. ‘The empire means everything to me, sir. If I can help, I will.’

‘I hoped you’d say that.’ Germanicus’ expression grew sombre. ‘I wish to visit the site of Arminius’ ambush.’

‘Tubero was also there, sir,’ said Tullus in confusion. ‘He is a more senior officer.’

‘He is young. Very young.’

‘But—’

‘I have no proof, but I’m not altogether sure I believe Tubero’s account of what happened.’ Here Germanicus pointed a warning finger. ‘That’s to stay between you and me, d’you understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Tullus, exulting and despairing at the same time. At last someone else knew, or suspected, Tubero to be the liar he was. Whether Germanicus wasn’t prepared to challenge Tubero’s story for lack of proof or because it served the empire to have a high-ranking hero, Tullus wasn’t sure. More likely the latter, he thought with bitterness. Tubero was a senior officer who couldn’t be blamed for what happened, and who had come through the affair thanks to his
virtus
, his courage and moral fibre.

‘So you will take me around the battlefield? I want to see where the various attacks took place, and, if you know it, where Varus and his commanders died.’

Tullus hesitated as the full realisation of what was being asked of him sank in. He had never imagined returning to the exact site where he’d seen his soldiers wiped out – it was bad luck to tread upon such bloodstained ground. How would it feel to show another where they had camped, wet, cold and miserable, on the first night – ignorant of what would happen to them? To point out his men’s whitened bones, scattered along that corridor of death? To stand where his legion’s eagle had been lost, where the Eighteenth’s pride had been stripped away in the most shameful manner? For a moment, Tullus found himself unable to speak.

‘I know it will be an agonising task,’ said Germanicus in a quiet voice. ‘If you wish not to do it, I will not insist. There will be no repercussions. None. May Jupiter strike me down if I lie.’

Germanicus’ face was earnest, and Tullus saw that he
did
understand how his exalted position made men think that they couldn’t say no. He was granting a way out to Tullus – and he meant it. Tullus cleared his throat. ‘It would be a good thing to seek out my men’s remains, sir, those that are possible to find, and give them a decent burial.’

‘All of our dead deserve the same. I intend to erect a tumulus on the battlefield, a sacred mound, by which they may be remembered forever.’

Their eyes met for a long moment, and then Tullus nodded. ‘I would be proud to show you what happened, sir, and where.’