Eagles at War (15 page)

Piso repeated his trick of breathing on
his
dice, and was rewarded with a five and a six.

With less grace than before, Aius handed over two sestertii. ‘Same odds again?’

Piso glanced at Afer, who shook ‘No’ at him. ‘Aye,’ he said.

To his delight, Piso won that bout, and the next, and the next. His friends couldn’t believe his luck – nor could Aius. His good humour – and his coinage – all but gone, he regarded Piso with a black expression. ‘I’m starting to think that you’re a cheating bastard. Those dice of yours must be weighted.’

‘They are not!’ protested Piso.

Afer leaned in close. ‘Piso. Time to go.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Aius, waving a hand. ‘We have one more throw to play.’

‘One sestertius?’ enquired Piso. That was all the money Aius had left on the table.

‘Damn it, no!’ Aius rooted in his purse, and slapped down a pair of curved bronze fasteners, the type used to hold the shoulder doubling on mail shirts in place. ‘These, against all your coins.’

The fasteners had been well made; they were graceful-looking but solid, and were worth a deal more than the money Piso had won. He turned one over, then the other.
‘M AIVS I FABRICII
’ had been stamped on to one; ‘
M
AII I) FAB
’ incised on to the other. They both said that the fasteners were the property of Marcus Aius, of the century of Fabricius, in the First Cohort.

‘But if I win, and someone finds me with them, I’ll get accused of being a thief,’ objected Piso.

‘You can scratch out my name easy enough, and have your own marked in on top. Don’t worry about it, however. You’re going to lose.’ Shaking the dice in his fist, Aius flipped them on to the table. A smile spread across his face. ‘Not bad. Two fours.’

Piso was about to throw his own dice when Aius offered his. ‘Use these.’

It was clear that there would be a fight if he didn’t. With a shrug, Piso accepted the bone cubes, shook them to and fro, and let fly. The first dice came to a stop at the edge of the table – a four – but the second fell to the floor. He glanced at Aius, who had an unpleasant grin on his face. ‘Invalid throw,’ he said.

‘Very well.’ Bending down, Piso was annoyed to see a six staring up at him. Cupping both hands around the dice this time, he rolled them about for a count of two and let go. His heart thumped in his chest as the dice skated over the surface, coming to rest by Aius’ folded arms.

‘A four and a five. With my own dice. What an old bitch Fortuna is,’ Aius growled.

‘It was bad luck, right enough. Maybe you’ll fare better next time.’ Piso picked up the fasteners and Aius’ last coin, and feeling the need to avoid trouble, stood. ‘See you around.’

Over the next hour or two, the three friends wandered the streets, devoured some greasy food from an open-fronted restaurant and had a couple more drinks. There had been no sign throughout of Aius or his comrades, and Piso had almost forgotten them. He had told his story multiple times, and was about to begin it yet again, when Afer could take no more. ‘We were there, Piso, and saw you win, over and over. It was good fortune, but we don’t need to hear about it for the rest of the damn night!’

‘Fair enough,’ replied Piso, a little put out. His disgruntlement vanished ten paces later, outside one of the better brothels in the vicus. A sign hanging over the entrance depicted a painted phallus, and one of its whores stood half-clad in the doorway, entreating male passers-by to come in. ‘Got enough coin to go in here?’ he asked his comrades.

‘Aye – if you’re paying,’ retorted Afer.

Vitellius was quick to chime in. ‘I wouldn’t say no either.’

‘Piss off, the pair of you,’ grumbled Piso, turning away. ‘I’m not wasting my winnings on you.’

His comrades’ ribbing continued for a distance down the street. None of the three noticed Aius and several of his companions emerge from the brothel, recognise them, and summon the rest of their group from a restaurant opposite. Like a pack of dogs stalking a cat, they crept up behind the trio.

The first Piso knew of it was when Vitellius, who was a little way behind, let out a sharp cry. In the same moment, a carter steering an ox-drawn wagon laden with bricks walked out of a side street, cutting him and Afer off from their friend. Desperate to reach Vitellius – it was clear from the shouted curses and cries of pain that he was being attacked – Piso scrambled under the cart on his hands and knees, between its front and back wheels. All he could see beyond was a mass of legs, kicking at a prone shape. ‘Vitellius!’ Driving forward, Piso grabbed the nearest man round the lower legs and took him tumbling to the ground. Letting go, he swept another off his feet in the same manner and managed to punch another in the balls. Shouts and roars told him that Afer was doing some damage too, but their enemies had realised what was going on. Piso found himself surrounded by four legionaries. Light cast by the torches burning outside a tavern revealed one to be Aius. ‘Thought you could take the piss out of the First Cohort and get away with it, did you?’ Aius cried.

That was how he’d got his friends to come along so readily, thought Piso. Protest was futile. Resistance was futile too, but he couldn’t just stand there. ‘Fuck you, Aius!’ he roared, and threw himself at the broken-nosed legionary. He landed two good punches, one to the belly and another to the face, when something hit him on the side of the head. Stars burst across his vision, and Piso felt his knees fold. At once the blows started to rain down. Before the pain took over, he had a brief thought that Vitellius had done a far better job of saving him in Aliso than he had of Vitellius here. Poor old Afer was getting it too, all because
he
hadn’t just walked away from the damn dice.

A kick to Piso’s solar plexus drove the air from his lungs in a mighty
whoosh
. A world of pain erupted then, in his head, through his whole being. He retched, brought up a mouthful of rancid wine, nearly choked on it.
Stamp.
One of his ribs broke. Someone raked their hobnails down his arm, and Piso felt his flesh tear open. If he’d been able, he would have screamed. Winded, almost paralysed by the blow to his midriff, he could do nothing but lie there, helpless as a babe.

Then, for no apparent reason, the punishment stopped.

Piso felt instant relief, but renewed terror that his assailants were planning something worse.

‘What in the name of fucking Hades is going on?’ roared a voice.

Piso rolled over, groaning with the pain that the movement caused. Opening his puffy eyes, he tried to focus, but could see nothing other than a sea of shuffling feet.

Crack.
It was the unmistakeable sound of a vitis landing. A yelp followed. ‘Answer, you maggot!’

Is that Tullus? Piso wondered, feeling a trace of hope seep into his foggy brain.

‘It’s just a fight, sir. Got a bit out of hand, that’s all.’

Crack.
The vitis connected again, eliciting another anguished cry. ‘“A bit out of hand,” he says, when it’s eight, nine – no, ten of you against three! What big fucking men you are!’
Crack. Crack. Crack.
More bawls and shouts of pain. ‘Over there, against the wall – all of you! MOVE IT, YOU SHOWER OF CUNTS!’

The legionaries filed away. Piso rolled over, and was relieved to see Afer close by. Blood was running down his forehead, and one of his eyes was closed, but he was able to leer at Piso. ‘Where’s Vitellius?’ asked Piso.

Afer pointed. Their friend lay a few paces away, unconscious. Piso was comforted to see that his chest was rising and falling. He might be badly hurt, but he wasn’t dead.

‘Gods above and below. I should have known it’d be you.’ Tullus, solid as a tree trunk, was standing over Piso. He extended a hand. ‘Can you get up?’

‘I think so, sir.’ Taking the grip, Piso managed to push himself up with wobbly legs. The world spun, and he grabbed Tullus’ shoulder. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he mumbled, releasing it and almost falling again.

‘Hold on to me, you fool.’ Tullus’ voice was gentler than normal. He guided Piso to the wagon. ‘Lean against that.’

Piso clutched the planking as if it were a branch found at sea by a shipwrecked sailor.

Afer had managed to stand on his own. He weaved his way to Vitellius, and knelt.

‘How bad is he?’ asked Tullus.

‘I’m not sure, sir. He’s out for the count.’

Tullus’ brow lowered further. He stared at Piso. ‘What happened?’

‘It was nothing more than a few games of dice, sir, with one of the soldiers. He really didn’t like losing these, I think.’ He pulled the bronze fasteners from his purse and handed them over.

‘Swear to me that you’re telling the truth.’

‘I swear it, on my mother’s life, sir.’ There was a non-committal grunt, and Piso added, ‘May Jupiter strike me down if I lie, sir.’ He held his breath as Tullus peered at the fasteners, front and back. Then he watched, his nerves taut as a wire, as Tullus strode over to the legionaries, who were little more than a line of black figures outlined against the tavern wall.

‘It turns out that the men you were beating are from my century. Your reasons for beating them better be fucking good, I can tell you,’ Tullus threatened. ‘My soldier here tells me this whole pile of shit is about a game of dice. He says that one of you took exception to losing his money, and these fasteners.’

‘It wasn’t that, sir,’ protested one legionary. ‘He was mouthing off about the First Cohort.’

‘What did he say?’ barked Tullus.

There was a short silence, and the legionary said, ‘Err, not sure, sir. It was Aius here told us.’

‘You’re Aius?’ demanded Tullus.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Enlighten me as to what was said.’

Aius reeled off a list of insults, every one of which was credible as something that might be hurled at a unit: the First Cohort were all
molles
, arselovers. They were cowards too, men who would always run from a fight. They were a disgrace to the legion. ‘I could go on, sir,’ said Aius.

‘That’s fine, legionary,’ interrupted Tullus. ‘Tell me why three soldiers would say things like that when they were so outnumbered by the very legionaries they were insulting?’

‘I-I couldn’t say, sir. It must have been the drink talking.’

‘The drink talking,’ Tullus repeated. He stuck his face into Aius’. ‘I could believe that of certain men, perhaps, but I know my soldiers quite well. Pissheads they may be, stupid too, to some extent, but they’re not cretins!’ He rammed the fasteners partway up Aius’ nose and pulled them out again, leaving Aius groaning. ‘These are inscribed “Marcus Aius of the First Cohort”. That
would
be you?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Aius’ voice was muffled by his hands, which were clutching his face.

‘And you lost them in a game of dice not long ago, to that man over there?’ Tullus pointed at Piso.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘How many years’ service have you completed?’

‘Twelve, sir,’ replied Aius.

‘If I’ve learned one thing as a centurion, it’s that a soldier who gambles pieces of his kit, a veteran in particular, is a man with a problem. My gut is telling me that you’re such an individual.’ Aius did not reply at once, and Tullus bawled, ‘Would I be correct?’

‘I wanted to get my money back, sir,’ mumbled Aius. ‘And those fasteners.’

‘I thought as much,’ Tullus snapped. Moving closer to one of the torches, he produced a wax tablet and a stylus. ‘Approach, one at a time. I want names, any distinguishing features, century, and your centurion’s name.’

Piso watched with increasing pleasure as the ten legionaries filed past Tullus, giving their details and showing him the scars, birthmarks or tattoos that would identify them from other men. None dared ask what their punishment would be. When Tullus was done, he glanced at Afer. ‘How’s Vitellius?’

‘He’s come to, sir,’ came the answer. ‘Says he’s not too bad.’

Piso could have sworn that relief flashed across Tullus’ face. ‘Lucky for you maggots that he’s woken up,’ he yelled at Aius and the rest. ‘Piss off, the lot of you. Centurion Fabricius will be hearing about this in the morning.’ With
thwacks
of his vitis, he drove them away. Piso took great satisfaction from the fact that the man he’d punched in the balls was walking with an odd gait.

His good spirits lasted as long as it took Tullus to determine again that their injuries weren’t too serious. After that, he lambasted them from a height. ‘What kind of stupid bastard starts gambling with a soldier who’s got half his century with him? No legionary of mine should
ever
be caught fighting in the street either. What kind of lowlifes are you?’

Piso and the other two absorbed the tirade in silence. They didn’t complain either when Tullus confined them to camp for a month, adding in latrine duty for the same period, nor when he promised them extra training marches the moment that the surgeon pronounced them fit. At length, he finished his rant. He gave them each a hard stare, which they met with reluctance. ‘Out of my sight,’ he ordered. ‘Back to barracks.’

Supporting Vitellius on either side, Piso and Afer began to edge around the wagon. The dumbstruck carter, who had been watching from a safe distance, not yet certain that the trouble was over, ventured towards his oxen.

‘Piso.’

Piso looked back.

‘Were your winnings worth it?’ asked Tullus.

Piso ached all over. His friends must too, he thought, in particular poor Vitellius. ‘No, sir.’

‘Think before you play dice the next time, eh? The First Cohort might be arrogant whoresons, but they’re tough.’

‘Yes, sir. We’re grateful you happened upon us.’

Afer and Vitellius were quick to add their thanks.

‘Just as well I did.’ To Piso’s amazement, Tullus handed him the bronze fasteners. He chuckled. ‘After a fight like that, a man should hold on to what he won.’

VIII