Eagles at War (10 page)

‘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.’

‘Interesting? Ha!’

‘Here.’ Afer held out his hands, and Piso heaved his shirt up again. This time, Afer was there to grab it and heave it up to the sweet spot, just below his shoulders. With a groan, Piso brought it up over his head. He was ready for the balance of its weight to shift, and moved his feet back as it spilled on to the floor with a loud
thunk
. ‘Thanks.’

Afer was halfway back to the bunkroom. ‘Got any wine?’ he called over his shoulder.

‘I wish.’

‘Go and find some, eh?’

There was a loud chorus of agreement from the rest.

Piso wanted to lie down for a bit, but Afer’s intervention had meant a lot. He tested the weight of the purse that hung from his belt and judged it held enough coinage to buy wine for them all. It had been a good idea to be careful with the advance he’d been given upon enlistment – the next payday wasn’t for some time. ‘I will,’ he said, catching the empty leather skin that Afer flung out to him, ‘but it won’t be my turn again until each of you shower of shits has bought some too.’

Ignoring the whistles and insults that followed, he strapped on his belt, adjusted his tunic, checked that his dagger was in place. The abuse was to be expected. Being in the army wasn’t that different to spending his entire time with a group of his boyhood friends in northern Italy. Checking that Tullus was nowhere in sight – he wasn’t doing anything wrong, but the centurion always managed to find a fault of some kind with his appearance or kit – Piso sloped out of the barracks door.

There were plenty of legionaries from the patrol about. Some were lighting fires to cook their evening meal. Others had kit to repair and were doing it outside, where the light was better. Two men were playing dice in the dirt, watched by their friends. A pair with more energy than most were wrestling together, grappling and trying to throw the other to the ground. Wagers were being made on which of them would go down first. Piso was tempted to watch, even to gamble, but his thirst won out. ‘Anyone found a place to buy wine?’ he asked.

‘Try the avenues around the garrison’s barracks,’ advised a legionary. ‘There’ll be someone flogging it around there.’

Muttering his thanks, Piso walked towards the main gate, where the resident soldiers lived. As he rounded the corner on to the
via praetoria
, an optio passed by. The man wasn’t from Piso’s unit; nonetheless, he averted his gaze and breathed easier when the officer had gone. Piso had always been a little clumsy, perhaps because he was so tall, but it had never mattered much until he had joined the army. Everything had to be done
just so
, and if it wasn’t, officers like Fenestela and Tullus let him know about it in no uncertain terms. Still, he seemed to be getting the hang of most things at last. Keeping his clothing and equipment clean and ready for use, wearing his uniform in the correct manner, marching in step and weapons training were all routine tasks now.

In the event, it didn’t take Piso long to find some wine. A white-haired Phoenician with deep brown skin – ‘The only one of my race to trade in Germania,’ he boasted at the top of his voice – was hawking an assortment of goods from a portable stall near the camp’s entrance. He had fish sauce and olive oil in little pots, aromatic herbs, and exotic spices wrapped in twists of fabric – black pepper, coriander and cumin. What he was selling most of, however, was wine. Piso listened as the Phoenician recommended half a dozen vintages, all of which cost more than he could afford, before plumping for a skinful of the cheapest variety. Even that cost a deal more than it did in Vetera, but when he protested, the Phoenician gave an eloquent shrug. ‘The stuff didn’t walk here on its own. Travel costs, you know. Do you see anyone else offering wine of any quality, let alone the divine flavours I have?’

Piso snorted. The wine’s resemblance to pure vinegar was astonishing, but the merchant was right. There was no one else to buy the stuff from – this centrally, anyway. The rogue must have an arrangement with one of the garrison’s offers, he thought, handing over the coins.

‘Can I tempt you to some pepper?’ The Phoenician swept a handful of the spice under Piso’s nose. His nostrils filled with the pungent, heady aroma that he hadn’t been able to afford for months.

‘Not this time.’

The pepper was withdrawn at once, as if he would steal it, and the Phoenician’s toothy smile shrank. ‘When you need it, my friend, I’ll be here.’

Piso headed for his barracks, trying and failing not to think about the wonderful foods that had been available in the neighbourhood where he’d grown up. Spiced lentils, smoked ham, fresh fish, breads of every type imaginable, pastries and sweetmeats, and a dozen times as many spices as the Phoenician had had. The signature dish of one local restaurant had been veal escalope with raisins – Piso had only been able to afford it once, but his mouth watered at the thought of it. Distracted by the fantasy, he didn’t see the burly legionary in his path. With a clash of heads, they collided. Piso stumbled back, clutching the throbbing lump on his skull; the other let out a string of oaths. ‘Clumsy bastard! Watch where you’re going!’

‘My apologies. I wasn’t looking.’ Piso’s heart sank as he saw that the soldier – one of the garrison – had two friends with him. As if on cue, they stepped to either side of their comrade, blocking the avenue.

‘Damn right, you weren’t,’ retorted the legionary. ‘You must have been thinking about your centurion shoving his cock up your arse.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ said Piso, wishing that Tullus were close enough to have heard. But he was nowhere to be seen. Neither were his tent mates, or any of his unit. ‘I said it was my fault. I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t care what you said, maggot.’ The legionary leered. ‘Me and my mates don’t like you. Walking around here like you own the damn place, buying up all the wine.’ Quick as lightning, he snatched the leather bag. Shaking it, he grinned. ‘It’s just been filled up, boys. Our luck’s in, eh?’

‘Give that back.’ Piso reached out, but the legionary tossed the skin to one of his friends. Piso turned to the man but, like bullies who’ve taken a child’s toy, he threw to the next one. ‘I paid for that,’ said Piso, his temper rising. ‘It’s mine.’

‘Regard it as payment for being such a fool.’ The big legionary spun on his heel with a chuckle, and Piso closed his eyes, wondering what to do. Trying to get the skin back would get him beaten up, but if he let the men walk away, his comrades – in particular Vitellius – would remind him of the humiliation for days to come.

He waited until the trio had all turned away before he charged. Arms outstretched, he managed to knock the legionary’s comrades aside, but in the process slammed into the man’s back faster than he’d meant to. Down they both went, Piso landing on top. There was an
oomph
of pain from beneath him. Surprised and relieved that he hadn’t been injured, Piso grabbed the skin and clambered to his feet. One of the soldiers that he’d pushed sideways swung a wild punch; Piso ducked and it whistled over his head. ‘Get him! Get the whoreson!’ roared the big legionary from the ground.

He couldn’t hang about. Piso darted forward, in the direction of his barracks. Eyes fixed on the middle distance, he didn’t see the foot that had been stuck in his path. The dirt came up to meet him with sickening speed. His left shoulder was the first to hit it; next was the side of his face. Starbursts of agony went off in his brain. Half-stunned, he lay helpless as his enemies closed in. Piso knew the pain would be bad, but the shock of the first studded sandal connecting with his head was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Another followed, and then it was kick after kick to the ribs and belly. Nausea swamped him, and he retched.

‘Beat the shit out of the maggot, but do it quick,’ said the man he’d walked into. ‘Otherwise an officer will catch us.’

‘Or I will,’ said a voice that Piso, confused, couldn’t quite place.

‘One of his mates, are you? Fuck off, or we’ll give you a hammering as well,’ the big legionary retorted.

‘Will you now?’ The speaker laughed. ‘Piso? Can you get up?’

The urgency in his saviour’s voice penetrated the fog encasing Piso’s brain. With an effort, he sat up, then stood. Dumbfounded, he stared at Vitellius, who was facing up, alone, to the three legionaries. The dagger in his hand explained their hesitancy; only one of them, the weediest-looking, was armed. Piso picked up the wine skin – he wasn’t going to leave that behind – and scrambled away from his assailants, to Vitellius’ side.

‘Draw your blade,’ Vitellius hissed.

Piso obeyed.

‘Listen, you sewer rats! Me and my friend are going to walk away, with our wine. You are going to stay put, unless you want to end your days with a knife in your belly.’ Vitellius edged a step backward and, taking the hint, so did Piso.

The big legionary glanced at his friends. ‘Come on! We can take them.’

‘Off you go,’ the weedy one said. ‘I’m not dying for a skin of wine.’

‘Me neither,’ said the third soldier.

‘Screw the both of you!’ shouted the big legionary at Piso and Vitellius. ‘Don’t let me catch either of you round here again, or you’ll be sorry.’

‘Fuck you too.’ Vitellius shuffled backwards a dozen steps and more, all the while facing the legionaries. Piso did the same, waves of relief washing over him. A little further, and they’d be safe.

A moment later, the three made obscene gestures and began walking in the opposite direction.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Vitellius.

‘I’m fine,’ replied Piso, even as the light-headedness took hold. His vision blurred, and he swayed.

Vitellius drew one of Piso’s arms over his shoulder and held it tight. ‘Lean on me, brother. Those bastards won’t come back. We can take it slowly to the barracks. We’ll have a nip of wine in a bit to give us some strength, eh?’

It hurt to laugh, but Piso did so anyway. ‘That sounds good. Were you looking for me?’

‘Aye. You were taking so long that we were dying of thirst. I said I’d find you.’

‘I’m glad you did. My thanks, Vitellius.’

Vitellius patted his hand. ‘You’re in my contubernium, and I’m in yours. We might hurl shit at one another, but we look after our own.’

At this, the pain that had been battering Piso’s body faded a little into the background.

For the first time, he felt like a real legionary.

V

EVENING HAD FALLEN
over Aliso. The legionaries of Tullus’ cohort had been allocated quarters some time since. While the five other centurions ate with the camp’s officers, he and Tubero had been invited to dine with the camp prefect Caedicius and the fort’s usual commander, Granius Marcianus, in the rundown
praetorium
. Caedicius’ presence here was to ensure that the summer needs of Varus’ army, which would pass the camp on its outward and return marches, were met. Tubero’s behaviour thus far had been exemplary. After several cups of wine, Tullus was beginning to think that perhaps he was just another eager young officer keen to prove himself, and out to make an impression.

Their surroundings might have seen better days, but every part of the large building was still grander than Tullus’ set of rooms at Vetera. The mosaic floors throughout wouldn’t have been out of place in an equestrian’s house in Italy. A fountain pattered in the central courtyard, and the mythical scenes painted on the walls of the larger chambers were as fine as he’d seen in any camp on the Rhenus. Caedicius and Marcianus were men who didn’t stand on ceremony, however. The couches upon which the previous occupant’s guests would have reclined had been stacked at the far end of the dining room, and a plain but serviceable table and set of chairs set up in their place. Tubero’s face had registered surprise at the informal arrangement, but he’d had the wit to remain silent. The
primus pilus
, or chief centurion of the Eighteenth for many years, Caedicius was now a camp prefect. Technically, Tubero outranked him, but in reality it was a different thing. Not that Caedicius made a thing of that either. He had ushered them to the table as any host might and poured each man wine with his own hands, while Marcianus had passed round the cups.

The olives that they’d had to start hadn’t been the freshest, but this far from Italy that was unsurprising, thought Tullus. The local cheese – and the wine, which was excellent – had more than compensated for their lack of flavour. So too had the leg of wild boar, roasted whole and served with garlic and rosemary. Silence had fallen over the table as the four officers set upon it.