by Ben Kane
‘CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA!’
The centurion in charge of the entrance to the principia gaped at Caecina’s order to pull aside the wagon that straddled the opening.
‘Do as I say!’ commanded Caecina.
‘Yes, sir.’ The centurion rapped out an order. A dozen legionaries placed their shoulders against the back of the wagon and shifted it five, ten paces. ‘That’s enough!’ called the centurion. He saluted Caecina. ‘Want me to accompany you, sir, with some of my boys?’
‘My soldiers can come too, sir,’ volunteered Tullus.
‘An honour guard will do,’ said Caecina. ‘A dozen of your men, Tullus.’
Tullus cursed inside. It was one thing for him to die at the hands of a baying mob, but he didn’t want his soldiers to do so. He’d been given a direct order, however. ‘Fenestela! Pick eleven men and get over here.’
‘CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA!’
A moment later, Fenestela trotted over. The soldiers he’d picked were veterans, among them Piso and Vitellius.
‘I’ll go first, sir,’ volunteered Tullus.
‘Very well.’ Caecina adjusted his red sash, and brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from his burnished cuirass. ‘The gods be with us.’
‘CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA! CAE-CINA!’
‘No one should touch his sword, sir, or make any threatening move,’ Tullus advised Caecina. ‘I cannot emphasise that enough.’
‘I understand. You’re to do as Tullus says,’ said Caecina to the other senior officers.
‘Not a fucking twitch of a muscle unless I say so,’ Tullus commanded his men. ‘You hear me?’
‘Aye, sir.’ His soldiers looked scared, but steady.
‘Follow me,’ ordered Tullus. Despite what he’d just said to Caecina, it took all of his self-control not to unsheathe his own gladius. There was every chance that the mob might fall on them as they emerged, but to appear with a drawn weapon would only invite that response.
A wave of catcalls, derisive whistles and insults descended as they filed out. It was impossible not to find the waiting horde intimidating. At least five hundred legionaries, if not more, had assembled before the entrance. They were armoured, and many carried blades in their hands. More than one of those was bloody. To a man, their faces were hard. Expectant. Fierce.
These were the angriest, most determined of the mutineers, thought Tullus, ordering his soldiers to spread out in a line in front of Caecina and the other officers. To confront the governor in this manner took courage. Like as not, every troublemaker from the four legions was here – and they seemed prepared to shed blood.
A bony-faced, sunken-cheeked legionary was in a position of prominence, several steps in front of his fellows. This had to be the man mentioned by Piso. Three others were with him. Tullus recognised two, the twins described by Piso and Vitellius; with them was another man, a slight soldier with thinning hair and a bulbous, sausage-like nose. ‘If things turn to shit,’ he muttered to the nearest of his legionaries, ‘we kill those four first. Pass it on.’ It wouldn’t save their lives, but it might stall the mutineers long enough to allow Caecina to get back inside the principia.
The noise made by the mob redoubled when they saw Caecina. Bony Face and his companions threw each other triumphant looks. It wasn’t surprising, thought Tullus. Ordinary legionaries never spoke to the governor, let alone summoned him forth like a whipped dog from its kennel. This moment turned everything that was normal on its head.
Whatever else Caecina was, he wasn’t short of backbone. Ignoring Tullus’ restraining arm, he stepped forward until there were only a dozen paces between him and the mutineers’ leaders. A hush fell. ‘Here I am,’ cried Caecina. ‘What do you wish of me?’
‘Our demands are simple,’ said Bony Face. ‘We want a raise in pay – a decent one, mind. The period of service is to be cut back to its original sixteen years, and all soldiers who have served twenty years will be allowed their discharge. That’s it.’ He gave his companions a satisfied nod, and folded his arms.
‘Although I am governor, I do not have the authority to make such decisions,’ said Caecina. He tried to continue, but so many insults were being hurled that it was impossible for him to be heard.
When the clamour had died down, Bony Face was first to speak. ‘Is this your final answer?’ he demanded, the contempt dripping from his voice.
‘I am not trying to be difficult. Understand that I cannot implement such far-reaching changes without the emperor’s authority,’ said Caecina.
Again the legionaries roared their displeasure.
‘Don’t pretend that you’re powerless, or without influence!’ Bony Face stabbed a finger towards Caecina. ‘You fucking senators and equestrians! You’re so high and mighty, so superior. You take us for fools, who you can treat no better than slaves. Understand that those days are over! Bring forth the prisoner.’
Four legionaries emerged from the throng, dragging a centurion whose arms and legs were bound. The man raised his head, and Tullus took in a dismayed breath. It was Septimius. Beaten, dazed-looking and with two black eyes, but Septimius nonetheless.
Bony Face drew his sword and stepped to Septimius’ side. ‘Have you anything to say, filth?’ he hissed.
‘Let me go,’ said Septimius. His eyes fixed on Caecina. ‘Don’t let them kill me, sir, please.’
Tullus clenched his fists. Prick though Septimius was, he didn’t deserve to be treated like this.
‘How pathetic,’ said Bony Face with a sneer. ‘What have you to say, governor? Will you meet our demands?’
Caecina’s mouth worked. ‘I told you. Without permission from the emperor, I cannot. I will do my best, however, to see that they are given the consideration that they merit.’
‘Hear him!’ Bony Face turned to the mob behind him and repeated in a mocking tone. ‘The consideration they merit? Is that good enough for us?’
‘NOOOOOOO!’ Purple-faced, neck veins bulging, and brandishing their swords, the mutineers screamed their disdain. Bony Face and his three cronies swaggered to and fro before them, egging the crowd on.
Tullus moved to Caecina’s side, and spoke into his ear. ‘If we move right now, sir, we might be able to cut down the legionaries holding Septimius and drag him to safety.’
Caecina’s eyes flickered from left to right, over the mob.
‘We have to do it now, sir,’ whispered Tullus.
‘They’ll kill us,’ replied Caecina.
Waves of impotent fury battered Tullus’ mind. He wasn’t sure that they could save Septimius, but they had to try. ‘Sir—’
‘Stay your hand!’ ordered Caecina.
‘Save me, sir! Save me!’ Somehow Septimius had wrestled free of his captors’ grasp. He took a step forward and tripped, landing on one knee. Half upright, his face twisted with terror, he called out to Caecina, ‘Help me, I beg of you, sir!’
Caecina looked away.
Despite his best intention, Tullus laid a hand to the hilt of his sword.
Whether Bony Face’s reaction was because he’d seen Tullus, or because he had already made up his mind, was never clear. With terrible swiftness, he strode in behind Septimius. Tullus watched in horror as Bony Face thrust with all his might. The blow was so savage that his sword travelled clean through Septimius’ chest and emerged, crimson-tipped, from his chest. Spitted like a roast piglet, Septimius hung there, his eyes wide with agony and shock, and his lips twitching. Bony Face planted a studded sandal in the small of his back and shoved him forward, off the steel. Blood spurted from the wounds front and back as Septimius flopped on to his face, already a corpse.
‘Our demands must be met!’ shouted Bony Face, brandishing his bloodied weapon. ‘If they are not, the same doom awaits you all!’
‘KILL!’ shouted a faceless legionary in the mob.
His cry was taken up at once, the way one stone starts a landslide. ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’
Decorum forgotten, Tullus had pushed Caecina halfw
ay towards the entrance to the principia before the third ‘KILL!’ had been uttered. ‘Inside, sir. Now!’ Caecina didn’t protest, and the other senior officers followed Tullus with indecent haste. ‘Orderly withdrawal, Fenestela,’ he roared, praying that the mob didn’t tear his men apart.
To his huge relief, the mutineers did not attack. Fenestela and the rest pounded in, and the wagon was rolled back across the entrance. Laughter and insults rolled in over the earthen rampart, buffeting their ears. ‘Cowards!’ ‘Yellow-livered whoresons!’ ‘Arse-humping Greeks!’ ‘Come out and fight!’
‘Fuck, that was close,’ said Fenestela. ‘If you’d moved a moment later, we’d be halfway to Hades.’
‘Septimius was no good, but he deserved better than that,’ said Tullus.
‘You know that Bony Face is one of Septimius’ soldiers?’
A ball of icy fury formed in Tullus’ stomach. ‘One of his own men murdered him?’
‘Aye. I’m fairly sure that the twins and Fat Nose are in what was his century as well.’
Tullus swore, long and hard. Remember their faces, he thought.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Fenestela in an undertone as he eyed Caecina. His tone made clear what he thought of the governor’s behaviour.
‘Caecina was right to hold us back,’ said Tullus, bringing his own fury under control. Fenestela looked surprised and Tullus added, ‘We would have been massacred, and for nothing. We might be yet, if those defences aren’t improved.’
Fenestela hawked and spat. ‘It’s a terrible thing to watch a man being butchered in front of you, even someone like Septimus.’
‘It is,’ growled Tullus, Septimius’ terrified face vivid in his mind. Yet another man to avenge, he thought.
‘What now?’
‘We send messengers to Rome, if that hasn’t been done already, and to Germanicus. We finish the ditch and rampart, and hold this position. In the middle of the night, we can go to the well and raid the stores, and take enough water and food to last us a while. Then we wait. That’s what we fucking do.’
‘Germanicus better get here soon.’
Fenestela was right, thought Tullus, listening to the mutineers’ bloodcurdling roars. If Germanicus came too late, he would find nothing but corpses.
Chapter VII
THREE DAYS WENT by in the great summer camp. Piso and his comrades were often on sentry duty, watching the groups of mutineers who surrounded the principia. To Piso’s relief, they made no attempt to attack the position. Much of the time, it seemed that the rebellious legionaries’ only purpose was to drink every drop of wine they could find. Once it became clear that there was to be no assault, morale within the headquarters rallied a good deal. Because of the mutineers’ drunken state, Piso and Vitellius didn’t object when Tullus sent them out at night to collect water and steal much-needed supplies.
Each day, Caecina sent messengers on horseback to find Germanicus. As he said repeatedly, ‘One might fail to get through, or two, but not all of them. Germanicus will soon hear of our plight.’
His words did little to reassure Vitellius. ‘How will Germanicus bring the mutineers around?’ he asked Piso over and over. ‘Other than by granting their demands of course, which isn’t likely.’
Piso had no answer, but he’d heard Tullus saying that Germanicus would know what to do, and that was good enough for him. All they had to do was hold out until the general arrived. He was less than impressed, therefore, when Tullus sought him and Vitellius out early on the fourth morning with orders to go out into the camp to see what they could discover about the mutineers’ intentions.
‘It won’t be that dangerous,’ Tullus declared. ‘The stupid bastards have only placed a couple of sentries around the sides and rear. It’ll be easy to slip out.’
‘It’s not that, sir,’ said Piso, his fear giving him the courage to answer back. ‘What if we get recognised?’
‘Wear a hooded cloak. Avoid the Fifth’s tent lines – go and see what’s happening where the other legions are camped. If you do happen to spy anyone you know, just walk the other way. It can’t be hard to avoid attention in a camp of seventeen thousand men.’
Tullus was right, Piso told himself. ‘All right, sir.’
‘Good lad. You’ll be fine.’ Tullus gripped his shoulder. ‘I’d come with you, but Caecina has forbidden it. Says he needs me here.’
‘Is anyone else to go, sir?’ asked Vitellius.
‘Six others from the century. You will operate in pairs, though. You’d attract more attention in larger numbers. It’s tunics, belts, swords and a cloak each – nothing more. I’ll be back soon.’ With an approving nod, Tullus left them to it.
Piso and Vitellius exchanged a meaningful glance.
‘It can’t be worse than the forest was,’ muttered Vitellius.
That was small consolation, thought Piso. If they were denounced by a single legionary, they’d be beaten to death in the blink of an eye, as traitors.
‘Ready?’ hissed Piso. They had both just clambered over the rampart and ditch that now ran around the principia. There was no one in sight, but that would change fast, even at this early hour. Not every mutinous legionary lay abed until midday.
‘Aye.’
Piso was already walking north. He wanted to put a good distance between them and the Fifth’s lines, which lay near the camp’s southern gate. Apart from a handful of former comrades from the Eighteenth, he didn’t know a soul in any of the other three legions, and was glad of it at this moment.
‘Hood up or not?’ asked Vitellius, pacing alongside.
‘Heart says up, head says down,’ answered Piso. ‘It’s not cold, though, is it?’
Vitellius’ hand fell to his side. ‘Aye, I suppose you’re right. Makes it a shitload more frightening, though, eh?’
‘Gods, aye.’ Piso was fighting a continual battle to keep his fingers from straying to his sword hilt. He gave the phallus amulet at his neck a surreptitious rub. ‘What should we talk about? We can’t walk in silence – that might draw attention too.’
‘That’s easy,’ replied Vitellius, chuckling. ‘Stories about hunting, drinking and whores will keep us busy for hours. Longer, if you talk about gambling.’
‘You start.’
‘All right.’ Vitellius launched into the tale of a three-day drinking spree that he’d been on once, with Afer and two others of their old contubernium in the Eighteenth.
Piso’s heart twinged at the mention of Afer, who had been his first friend when he joined the army. Now his bones mouldered in the forest, like so many thousand others. Afer had died saving Piso’s life, and Piso remembered him every day for that. However, Vitellius’ tale was riotous, all men falling into latrine trenches and being sick in other men’s drinking cups, and its gutter humour helped Piso to stop brooding about the danger they were in – for a time at least.
Emerging on to a larger avenue, they aimed towards the northwest corner of the camp. Neat rows of tan-coloured goatskin tents ran off in every direction. Dozens, scores, hundreds of them, each home to a contubernium of legionaries. There was nothing unusual about the tents – the complete opposite in fact. Their presence and layout was something Piso was accustomed to, but it drove home more than he’d anticipated how alone he and Vitellius were.
The men standing about, talking, cooking, and farting inside their tents, were all mutineers. Vitellius’ voice faded into the background as Piso studied the nearest soldiers sidelong. That man there, stretching as he came out of his tent, and that one, striking flints together to light a fire, and another, scratching his stubble and giving them a friendly nod, they were no longer comrades. They were rebels, men who would gut him and Vitellius for staying loyal. They were the enemy.
‘You hungry?’ asked Piso as the familiar smell of cooking porridge filled his nostrils.
Vitellius looked irritated at being interrupted. ‘I had a bite before we left. Reckoned we mightn’t get a chance to eat until tonight. You?’
/> ‘Not even a crumb, worse luck. If the truth be told, I was feeling sick,’ said Piso. ‘Funny thing is, I’m fucking starving now.’
‘You’re getting used to being out here,’ whispered Vitellius, giving him an evil smile. ‘I don’t want to hear how hungry you are for the rest of the day, mind. It’s your own fault.’
‘Screw you,’ retorted Piso, giving Vitellius a shove.
They both laughed.
‘Want something to eat?’ called a voice.
Terror closed Piso’s throat. How could they have been so stupid, he wondered, talking loud enough to be overheard? Casually, he turned his head. Fifteen paces away, a squat barrel of a man in a stained tunic stood over a fire. A ladle dangled from his hand, and at his feet, wisps of steam rose from a battered pot perched amid the burning logs. Somehow Piso found his voice. ‘What are you cooking?’
‘Porridge, same as every other whoreson in the place,’ came the reply, with a dirty chuckle. ‘You two have been on sentry duty at the front gate, eh? Your tent mates will have shovelled down all the porridge at your tent by the time you get back. I know what the bastards are like. My friends’ – and he jerked a dismissive thumb at the tent behind him – ‘did the same to me two nights ago, so you’re welcome to share mine.’
‘You’re a generous man,’ said Vitellius. ‘But you will leave yourself with none. We’ll find a morsel somewhere.’
‘We have plenty.’ Barrel nudged a nearby sack with the toe of his sandal. ‘Yesterday I broke into part of the quartermaster’s stores that by some miracle hadn’t yet been ransacked. I came away with this and half a ham. You’re not having any of the meat, but I can manage a bowl of porridge.’
Piso glanced at Vitellius, who gave him a look. Piso wasn’t sure if it meant ‘Why not?’ or ‘Walking away will look suspicious’, but he couldn’t prevaricate either, because that too might cause suspicion, so he smiled at Barrel. ‘Gratitude, brother. I’m famished.’