Eagles at War

by Ben Kane

  Varus flashed his politician’s smile, all polish and no substance. ‘I give you my word as governor of Germania that all law-abiding Usipetes will be left in peace from this day forward. I will have the money drawn up at once, so that you may depart with it.’

  Red Head gave a tight nod. ‘So be it.’

  As the Usipetes conferred, Varus addressed Vala. ‘Dismiss the officers, but leave the soldiers on guard until the tribesmen have left.’ He called next to Arminius, who was talking with Red Head and the rest. ‘A word, if you will.’

  Arminius joined Varus with a smile. ‘That was a satisfactory result, don’t you think?’

  ‘What do you think you were doing?’ hissed Varus.

  Arminius’ face registered wounded innocence. ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘You arrived with the Usipetes. What kind of message does that give them? You are a citizen ally of Rome. An equestrian!’

  ‘My apologies, governor. My entrance was unintentional, I assure you. I was late getting to the principia, and I chanced upon them outside. We fell into conversation. The chieftains felt intimidated coming here, and concerned that they would not receive justice. I offered to accompany them inside, and said that you were an even-handed man, a man of integrity.’

  ‘Neither was it your place to offer them two thousand denarii per man,’ Varus snapped. ‘That is an extortionate sum!’

  Arminius bowed his head. ‘Forgive me for being presumptuous, governor. I wanted the Usipetes to feel that they were being shown respect. They suspected that you would not hand over Tubero before they came in. Their pride had to be assuaged in some manner, and the only way that that seemed possible was to make them a generous offer.’

  ‘It needn’t have been that much. I’d wager they would have accepted half the amount.’

  Arminius had the grace to flush. ‘I can only apologise again, governor. I was trying to help, but I should have remained silent.’

  Arminius’ humility helped to ease Varus’ anger. What made the real difference, though, was the knowledge that peace – the all-important peace – had been maintained for what, in the greater scheme of things, was a small sum. He sighed. ‘Let’s put the matter behind us, eh?’

  ‘Thank you, governor.’ Arminius cast him a stealthy look. ‘By way of further apology, could I tempt you with a hunting trip on the other side of the river? My second-in-command has found an area with a rich concentration of boar and deer. It would make a fine day out, and an escape from your paperwork.’

  Varus was about to reject the reconciliatory gesture, when he changed his mind. ‘Damn it, why not?’

  ‘Excellent. If you have no objection, I’ll ask Centurion Tullus as well. Would two days hence suit?’

  ‘It would,’ replied Varus, smiling at last. ‘Thank you, Arminius.’

  ‘The pleasure will be mine, governor. I’ll call at the praetoria for you soon after dawn.’ Arminius half bowed and walked away.

  Varus watched the Usipetes leaving the great hall in an unruly gaggle. If only all Germans were like Arminius, he thought. The world would be a more civilised place, and my life – everyone’s lives – would be that much easier.

  VII

  PISO, AFER AND Vitellius had found one of the best tables in the tavern that night. It was against the back wall, allowing them to set their backs against it as they drank, and to see everyone in the room. The establishment was popular with legionaries, in the main because it was owned and run by a veteran, a toothless reprobate by the name of Claudius. His goodwill towards serving soldiers went as far as extending credit, a practice that few other innkeepers in the vicus were prepared to emulate. As a consequence, Claudius’ tavern was always heaving. It didn’t matter that the wine was poor, and the food worse again, or that the whores were as rough as bears’ arses, and the latrines full to overflowing. A soldier knew he could drink there, even if payday wasn’t for another three months.

  The three had been on the patrol, and heard since about Varus’ interrogation of Tullus, and the confrontation with the Usipetes. They had been talking about little else since they had arrived. Well, Afer and Vitellius had been discussing it, and Piso had been listening. He was more accepted in the contubernium now, but when it came to discussing important issues, he yet preferred to keep his counsel.

  ‘Varus is still more likely to take Tubero’s word over Tullus’,’ said Afer for the third or fourth time. He scowled. ‘It’s a sad fucking day when a wet-behind-the-ears tribune gets believed before a career centurion.’

  ‘It won’t have been the first time, and it won’t have been the last,’ retorted Vitellius.

  The close proximity of their nearest neighbours, a dozen legionaries seated around a long table, meant that despite the clamour, their conversation could be overheard. One of them, recognisable anywhere by a nose that had been broken so many times that it resembled a piece of baker’s dough, turned around. ‘Varus is wise to that jumped-up little prick Tubero, never fear.’

  ‘Were you in the principia?’ asked Piso.

  ‘Aye. All of us were.’ He eyed his companions, who were arguing over where to go next. ‘Tubero tried to speak to Varus before the Usipetes got there, but Varus cut him off. He grilled Tullus hard enough – is that your centurion?’ He glanced at the friends, who nodded. ‘We couldn’t hear what was said, but it seemed as if Varus believed him.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ said Vitellius, his face brightening. Afer raised his cup in salute; so did Piso.

  Broken Nose thrust out his hand. ‘Marcus Aius, Second Century, First Cohort.’ From nowhere, he produced a pair of worn bone dice. ‘Any of you like to play?’

  ‘Aius.’ It was one of his companions.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Aius growled.

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ said the legionary. He glanced at Piso and Afer. ‘This man would gamble on two flies circling a fresh turd. Trouble is, he’s wont to pick the wrong one.’

  ‘Piss off,’ said Aius, but in an amicable tone. He eyed the friends. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ll have a game,’ said Piso, producing his own dice. ‘Afer?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Small change only,’ said Aius, dumping a little pile of asses and other low-denomination coins on the table.

  Vitellius went to refill their jug. Upon his return, he joined in for a short while, but after losing several bouts to Aius, withdrew. Afer was doing better, although by the time the wine had been finished, was down somewhat on where he’d started. Piso had fared similarly, yet when his friends suggested moving on to a different tavern, he shook his head. ‘My luck will change,’ he said.

  ‘Of course it will,’ agreed Aius with a wink.

  Afer flicked his eyes at Aius’ companions, and then the door. Piso understood that he meant it would be best if they left together. ‘Six more rolls,’ he said. ‘Fortuna’s in a good mood with me tonight.’

  ‘She hasn’t shown much sign of that so far,’ said Afer, but he relaxed on his seat. So too did Vitellius. ‘We’re leaving after that,’ he ordered.

  ‘Let’s raise the bet to five asses,’ said Aius. ‘One sestertius.’

  Piso wasn’t going to back down now. ‘All right.’ Blowing on the dice, he threw them on the table. ‘Two sixes!’

  Aius’ eyebrows rose. He rolled, and got a three and a two. ‘Here you go.’ He slid five asses towards Piso.

  A devilment took Piso. ‘Double or quits?’

  ‘Why not?’ retorted Aius. ‘I’ll go first this time.’ His dice spun and turned, coming to rest on a four and a five. ‘Ha!’

  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 not
hing 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?’