by Ben Kane
There were imperial officials everywhere. Ranks of them stood on both sides of the Forum as they had elsewhere, holding back the crowd with their staffs of office. Now and again, urchins similar to Tullus’ and Fenestela’s guide slipped between them and capered about in the street, chanting, ‘Tiberius! Tiberius!’ Laughter broke out among the spectators as the officials tried to catch the raggedly dressed interlopers. The urchins were rounded up in the end, and the sharp cracks they received from staffs ensured their good behaviour thereafter.
The procession drew nearer, drawing the crowd’s attention, and that of Tullus and Fenestela. Amid the cheering and shouts, comments and screams of excitement filled the air. ‘All my life, I’ve wanted to see a triumph!’ ‘You’re blocking my view!’ ‘Shift then, you mouthy bastard. I was standing here well before you.’ ‘What’s that in the first cart?’ ‘Weapons and armour.’ ‘Where’s the gold and silver? That’s what I want to see.’ ‘And the captives – where are they?’ ‘Tiberius. Show us Tiberius!’
Tullus was surprised and yet unsurprised by his own rising excitement. After a lifetime in the army, it would have been the crowning glory of his career to march in such a celebration. It wasn’t inconceivable that he and Fenestela could have participated. For a brief period they had been commanded by Germanicus, Augustus’ step-grandson, during the war in Illyricum. Tullus’ old bitterness at his situation soon welled up. Demoted, serving in another legion, his chances of parading in a triumph were non-existent. How far he had fallen since the battle in Germania three years before. He quelled his self-pity with ruthless determination. Forget what happened, he ordered himself. Enjoy the spectacle.
For hundreds of years, triumphs had been the staple display to the Roman people by generals returning from war, but they had fallen out of favour during Augustus’ rule. A full triumph had not been held for more than three decades, so even if Tullus had visited Rome before, he wouldn’t have seen one. The reason, as everyone knew, was that the only star allowed to shine in the capital was the emperor’s.
It was no coincidence that when Augustus had at last allowed a triumph to take place that it should be in honour of his heir, Tiberius. Not that Tullus had any quarrel with Augustus’ choice of successor. He had served under Tiberius in Germania almost a decade before, and the man had been a solid leader, who looked after his soldiers. You can’t ask for more than that, reflected Tullus, thinking darkly of Augustus and the merciless order that banned him and Fenestela from ever entering Italy.
Loud metallic clattering announced the arrival of dozens of ox-drawn wagons, containing the weapons and armour of the Illyrian tribesmen vanquished by Tiberius. There were spears, axes, swords and knives by the thousand, and more hexagonal shields and helmets than could be counted. There was huge cheering at first, but it soon died down. One wagonload of arms looked much the same as the next. The applause revived with the next set of displays: carts with free-standing maps of the areas conquered by Tiberius, and three-dimensional reconstructions of the tribal hill forts he had taken, and paintings of the most dramatic scenes of the campaign.
Unsurprisingly, the vehicles full of silver coins and jewellery proved to be the most popular. The lines of sacrificial animals, cattle, sheep and pigs, being led by priests, were also well received. Benedictions rained down on them, asking the gods to bless Tiberius. Tullus was amused by the quieter comments, from the wittier spectators, about which cuts of meat they would like after the animals had been killed.
The crowd’s excitement reached fever pitch as the first prisoners came into sight. Rotten vegetables, broken pieces of roof tile and pottery, even lumps of half-dried dog shit were produced from the folds of tunics. A barrage of the hoarded missiles began as soon as the captives came close. Tullus was disgusted. ‘They’re men, not animals,’ he said to Fenestela. ‘Brave too.’
‘How could I forget?’ Fenestela pulled down the neck of his tunic, exposing a red welt that ran across the base of his neck.
‘Gods, I remember that day. A spear, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye.’ Fenestela threw a sour look at the warriors in the nearest wagons. Despite the bombardment of objects, they remained proud-faced, straight-backed, even contemptuous. ‘It’s good enough for the whoresons, I say.’
The crowd’s enthusiasm for abusing the tribesmen came to an end as carts loaded with women and crying children trundled by. People averted their eyes, asked for lenient treatment and muttered prayers. Tullus felt an overweening contempt for the citizens around him. These people are prisoners thanks to a war that was waged in your name, he thought. Face up to it.
He forgot his concerns as the highest-ranking captives came past, among them Bato of the Daesidiates, one of the leaders of the three-year rebellion. Broad-shouldered, tall, clad in full battle array, Bato received the crowd’s acclaim by shaking his raised fists so that the chains linking them rang.
‘Is he to be executed?’ Tullus asked of the man beside him, a well-to-do-looking merchant.
‘Tiberius has decreed that he should live because he allowed our troops to escape at Andretium, and he surrendered with honour.’
Tullus hid his surprise. ‘He’s a generous man, Tiberius.’
‘The gods bless him and keep him safe. He has ruled that Bato is to live at Ravenna, with every comfort under the sun.’
‘Do you hear that?’ Tullus muttered to Fenestela when the merchant had looked away. ‘A fucking barbarian gets better treatment than us.’
‘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 s
wallow 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?’ dema
nded 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.’