Hunting the Eagles (3 page)

‘Nothing surprises me any more,’ said Fenestela with a grimace.

Despite the revelation, Tullus cheered with plenty of vigour as Tiberius appeared in a chariot drawn by four magnificent white stallions. His reaction was mirrored by everyone around him. The air resounded to the noise of cheers, screams and trumpets. Resplendent in the purple tunic and toga of a triumphant general, and with a crimson-painted face, Tiberius was holding a sceptre in one hand and a laurel branch in the other. Fleshy-chinned and long-nosed, he was no beauty, but he looked regal enough on this, his day of days. Behind him stood a slave, his job to hold a laurel wreath over Tiberius’ head for the length of the procession.

‘TI-BER-I-US! TI-BER-I-US! TI-BER-I-US!’ chanted the crowd.

The chance of Tiberius recognising Tullus
and
placing him in context was infinitesimal – they had been introduced once – but Tullus still dropped his gaze as the emperor’s heir came alongside his position. He hadn’t expected Tiberius’ nephew Germanicus, whom he had also met, to be riding right behind the chariot. Tall, big-framed and even-featured, Germanicus had a strong chin and thick brown hair. He was a striking man under normal circumstances, and in his dazzling gilded armour, he seemed close to a god.

As Tullus looked up, he found himself staring straight at Germanicus, who blinked and frowned. A heartbeat later, he mouthed, ‘I know you!’

Tullus froze on the spot, like a new recruit shouted at by his centurion. To his horror, it was now that one of the occasional delays to the procession happened. Instead of riding on, Germanicus remained right where he was. Tullus wanted to duck down, to turn and run, but his strength failed him.

Fenestela had also noticed Germanicus; averting his face, he pulled at Tullus’ arm. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

The physical touch brought Tullus to his senses. Even as it did, Germanicus called out: ‘You! Centurion!’

Several thoughts flashed through Tullus’ mind. The summons was for him, he was
sure
of it. He could pretend not to hear, look elsewhere and hope that the procession began to move before Germanicus had time to order him seized. He could flee, like a rat surprised by the opening of a sewer cover, and be pursued, or he could stand like a man and acknowledge Germanicus.

Ignoring Fenestela’s hiss of dismay, he squared his shoulders and met Germanicus’ stern gaze. ‘D’you mean me, sir?’

‘I do. You serve on the Rhenus, do you not?’

‘You have a fine memory, sir,’ answered Tullus, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him. If Germanicus recalled what they had talked about – Arminius’ ambush and the annihilation of Varus’ army – he was a dead man. Breaking the imperial ban was a capital offence.

‘Let’s go,’ urged Fenestela in a whisper.

‘We met there last year,’ said Germanicus.

‘Yes, sir. I am honoured that you recall it.’ From the corner of his eye, Tullus saw Tiberius’ chariot start moving. Let me be, he prayed. I’m no one.

‘Attend me once the sacrifices have been made. The front of the Curia.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Any thought that he might have a chance to escape before the appointed time vanished from Tullus’ mind as Germanicus jerked his head, and two Praetorian guardsmen pushed their way through the crowd towards him. Shit, he thought. He
does
know that I’m not supposed to be in Italy, or Rome. ‘Go,’ he ordered Fenestela. ‘He hasn’t seen you.’

‘I’m not running from those peacocks,’ retorted Fenestela, eyeing the Praetorians’ burnished armour and helmets.

‘Fenestela—’

Fenestela stuck out his jaw. ‘I belong with you,
sir
.’

I’m a fool, thought Tullus. A proud, stupid fool. So is Fenestela. We survived everything Arminius and his mongrel followers could throw at us, only to be caught out by one of our own.

He could almost hear their death sentences being read aloud.

The wait outside the Curia – perhaps two hours – felt like an eternity to Tullus. The removal of the prisoners who were to be executed at the base of the Capitoline, the ascent of Tiberius to Jupiter’s temple, the shouts from the crowd watching the ceremony there, and the distribution of bread and wine to the crowd passed by him in a daze. Even the arrival of the soldiers who’d marched behind Tiberius, the part of the procession that he’d most wanted to see, could not lift his mood. Miserable, blaming himself for Fenestela’s fate, he strode about the Curia, watched by the stony-faced Praetorians.

At one stage, he began to consider killing their guards so that they could escape. It was fortunate that he confided in Fenestela, who was swift to disabuse him of the notion. ‘You’re not thinking straight. Even if we managed it, which is unlikely given our lack of weapons, we’d have the city’s entire garrison after us. I wouldn’t give much for our chances after that. Sit tight and pray. That’s our best hope.’

Fenestela had never been much for praying, which said a lot about what he thought Germanicus would do to them. At a loss, Tullus did as Fenestela advised, and kept his peace. He felt like a murderer waiting for his capital sentence to be passed.

Germanicus’ arrival, swift and silent, caught him off guard. He had just one cavalryman as escort, but his magnificent armour left no doubt as to his station. Close up, the commanding presence granted by his height and charisma was even more palpable. Tullus leaped to attention, his back as stiff, his shoulders as far back as he could manage. ‘Sir!’

‘Sir!’ Fenestela was like his mirror image.

‘Name?’ demanded Germanicus.

‘Centurion Lucius Cominius Tullus, sir, serving in the Seventh Cohort of the Fifth Legion.’

‘Who’s this?’ Eyeing Fenestela, Germanicus slid from his horse’s back with an easy grace. His escort took the mount’s reins and led it to a nearby water trough.

‘My optio, sir. Fenestela’s his name.’

Germanicus gave Fenestela another casual look. ‘He’s an ugly whoreson.’

I can call him that, but not you, thought Tullus resentfully. ‘He is, sir, but he’s loyal and brave. I haven’t met a better soldier.’

‘High praise from an officer with … how many years’ service?’

‘Thirty, sir.’ And all of it wasted because of today, thought Tullus.

One of Germanicus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Why haven’t you taken your discharge?’

‘You know how it is, sir. The army’s my life.’ Germanicus’ easy tone was giving Tullus hope. It
was
possible that he didn’t remember the details of their conversation, that he’d forgotten Tullus had been at the battle where Varus had lost his legions.

‘Indeed.’ Germanicus paced up and down without speaking.

Tullus’ unease resurged.

‘It was my understanding that soldiers who’d served in the Seventeenth, Eighteenth or Nineteenth Legions were banned from entering Italy.’

This was said in a low tone, but a chasm had opened before Tullus. Even though he’d said the Fifth was his legion, Germanicus
knew
. ‘I, er, yes. They are, sir.’

‘Yet here you both stand.’ Germanicus’ voice had gone ice-cold. He towered over Tullus.

‘Yes, sir.’ Hard as it was, Tullus kept his gaze fixed on Germanicus’ face.

‘Your lives are forfeit.’

‘Aye, sir,’ grated Tullus.

‘Why are you in Rome?’

‘We wanted to see the capital, sir, but we wanted to witness Tiberius’ triumph even more. Both of us served in Illyricum, sir – it was only for a year, but we were there.’

‘The glory of this triumph would wipe away the shame of what happened in Germania.’

‘Something like that, sir,’ muttered Tullus, who had not fully realised before that this
had
been part of his reasoning.

‘Tell me again how the ambush went for you and your men.’

The memories that Tullus had relived not long before were still fresh in his mind. His grief for the soldiers he’d lost, buried as best he could since the disaster, was yet bleeding raw. As for the shame he felt over the loss of his legion’s eagle, well, that cut like a knife – and now he would have to vocalise it all. There was little alternative other than to obey, though. Germanicus was one of the most powerful men in the empire.

And so Tullus laid out the suspicions he’d had about Arminius, first fuelled by a conversation that his servant Degmar had overheard. It was a grim litany: Varus’ refusal to listen to him – twice; Arminius’ lie about the Angrivarii tribe rising against Rome; Varus’ decision to act against them, ordering the army off the road to Vetera and on to a narrow forest path; the initial attack, and the unrelenting horror that had unfolded over the subsequent days.

Tullus described the tribesmen’s frequent, stinging assaults. The growing number of Roman casualties. The enemy’s terrifying renditions of the barritus. The constant rain. The ever-present mud. The way the legionaries’ morale had been chipped away bit by bit. The loss of first one eagle, and then a second – that of the Eighteenth, Tullus’ old legion. The realisation that there might be no escape for anyone.

At this point, Tullus’ throat closed with emotion. With an effort, he continued, relating how he had – somehow – dragged fifteen soldiers out the bloody quagmire that had been the end of the battle. With Degmar’s help, they had made it to the safety of Aliso, a Roman fort. Together with its garrison, they had been pursued to Vetera, their legion’s base, but had reached it at last. When Tullus was done, he let out a ragged breath. Those days, the worst of his entire life, were etched into his memory like a deep-carved eulogy on a nobleman’s tomb.

Germanicus had said not a single word throughout. At length, he asked, ‘How many men survived?’

Tullus scratched his head. ‘Somewhat less than two hundred, I think, sir. That’s not including those taken prisoner by the Germans.’

Germanicus glanced at Fenestela, whose expression had remained grim during the whole account. ‘Well? Did it happen as your centurion says?’

‘Aye, sir, except it were worse,’ said Fenestela, bobbing his head. ‘Far worse.’

Another silence fell, one neither Tullus nor Fenestela dared break.

Tullus threw a sidelong, grateful look at Fenestela, and wished again that his optio had obeyed his order to vanish. Deep down, though, he was glad to have Fenestela there. His optio was the truest of friends, who would stand by him no matter what. Facing the executioners would be their final battle.

But his interrogation wasn’t over yet. ‘If I recall, you were a senior centurion?’ demanded Germanicus.

‘Yes, sir. Second Cohort, of the Eighteenth.’

‘That’s not your rank now.’

‘No, sir. I was demoted after the ambush.’ Tullus didn’t mention Tubero, who had orchestrated his reduction in rank. There was no point.

To his relief, Germanicus made no further comment. ‘How many
phalerae
have you won?’

Mention of his awards for valour always made Tullus a little uncomfortable. ‘Nine, ten, sir, something like that.’

‘It’s eleven, sir,’ chipped in Fenestela, ‘and he deserved every one of them.’

‘Thank you, optio,’ said Germanicus wryly.

Fenestela coloured and turned his head. Germanicus then studied Tullus’ face for so long that
he
began to flush, and had to look away. Pronounce my sentence, and have done, Tullus wanted to say.

‘It seems to me …’ Germanicus paused.

Tullus’ heart thudded. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground.

‘It seems to me that you did what few others could have done.’

Confused, Tullus lifted his gaze to meet that of Germanicus. ‘Sir?’ he asked.

‘I like to take men as I find them, centurion, and you seem to be a simple man. A brave one too, and a fine officer. I believe your story. To execute you would be a waste of a life. It would deprive the empire of a fine son.’

‘I …’ said Tullus, and words failed him.

Germanicus chuckled. ‘You will not be executed or punished for flouting the ban, centurion, nor will your optio here. If I had been in your place, I might also have come to Rome to see a grand spectacle such as Tiberius’ triumph, the first of its kind in thirty years.’

‘Yes, sir. T-thank you, sir.’ Tullus tripped over the words.

‘My clemency is not altogether altruistic. The emperor, may the gods bless him, is soon to appoint me as governor of the province of Tres Galliae and Germania. I will have need of good soldiers. Solid officers, like you.’ As Tullus struggled to contain his surprise and delight, Germanicus continued, ‘The humiliations heaped upon us by Arminius have not been forgotten – no, indeed. I mean to lead my legions over the river, to retake
all
that was lost. I refer not just to territory and riches, but to the three eagles. Will you aid me in this? Will you see that Rome has its vengeance?’

‘It would be my honour, sir.’ Tullus could hear Fenestela growling in agreement.

‘Good.’ Germanicus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I will seek you out on my arrival at the frontier. Best return to your duties with the Fifth before too long, eh?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Tullus watched with astonishment as Germanicus called for his horse and rode away. The two Praetorians followed.

Tullus’ knees were shaking. He sat down on a shop doorstep while Fenestela all but danced before him. ‘Who’d have expected that, eh?’

‘Aye,’ said Tullus, wondering how one moment an ignominious death could beckon, and the next he could be praised by the emperor’s step-grandson and
then
handed an opportunity to retrieve his honour.

Truly, the gods were smiling on him this day. Tullus had a good feeling that they would continue to do so during his quest for vengeance, and his hunt for his old legion’s eagle.