by Ben Kane
An expectant hush fell. It was time for the most valiant legionaries and auxiliaries to be recognised, thought Tullus, glancing at his men’s eager faces.
‘Before I mention you brave soldiers of Rome,’ announced Germanicus to excited shouting, ‘I have one other officer to call on.’ Again he stopped. This time, a complete silence descended, leaving the squalling wind as the only voice.
This award – separate from the awards granted to the centurions – was breaking from the usual protocol. Intrigued, Tullus listened with the rest.
‘Senior Centurion Lucius Cominius Tullus, of the Seventh Cohort, Fifth Legion, present yourself!’ Germanicus’ shout boomed across the training ground.
Stunned, Tullus wondered if he had misheard. He could feel his soldiers’ gaze boring into him, however, and could hear their delighted muttering. Shit, he thought. I’m not imagining it. Half a dozen heartbeats pounded by. On the dais some two hundred paces away, Germanicus waited.
‘Best get up there, sir,’ hissed Piso to Tullus.
He snapped back to the present. Self-conscious and already worried that his delay would have offended Germanicus, he stepped forward. Stiff-backed, guts churning, Tullus marched towards the platform, the weight of thousands of men’s eyes upon him.
At the regulation ten paces’ distance, Tullus snapped to attention, fixing his stare on Germanicus’ midriff. ‘Senior Centurion Tullus, Seventh Cohort, Fifth Legion, sir!’ he cried.
Standing on the platform emphasised the general’s great height – he towered over Tullus. ‘You took your time, senior centurion,’ Germanicus said with a frown.
‘I did, sir,’ Tullus faltered. ‘I was surprised to be summoned. My apologies.’
Germanicus’ lips twitched. ‘Apology accepted.’
He thinks it’s funny, Tullus realised, unsure whether to be relieved or annoyed.
Germanicus’ expression became formal again. ‘Soldiers of Rome,’ he shouted. ‘Senior Centurion Tullus is a man known to many of you. A veteran officer, he has served the empire for more than three decades. Until six years ago, he was in the Eighteenth Legion. When disaster befell that unit and two others at the Saltus Teutoburgiensis, almost every soldier of Varus’ command fell or was taken prisoner by the enemy. Not Tullus. Like a hero of old, he battled on for days, although it seemed as if the gods wished every Roman in that cursed place to die. Fewer than ten score men escaped the massacre, most of them in ones and twos. Tullus brought to safety fifteen. Fifteen! Legionaries whose honour was intact, who lived to fight another day!’
Fresh cheers rose.
More embarrassed than he had ever been, Tullus’ hope that Germanicus was done came to nothing as the general drew a fresh breath.
‘Senior Centurion Tullus and his men remained loyal through the difficult times after our divine father Augustus’ death. He risked his life then to save my person from danger.’ A still uncomfortable subject, Germanicus didn’t mention the previous year’s bloody rebellion further, but continued, ‘In the campaign that has just ended, Tullus distinguished himself on more than one occasion, in particular during the difficult battle on the Long Bridges road. These acts were not the first occasions in which Tullus has marked himself out as a leader, as a true son of Rome – the number of phalerae on his harness are proof of this. His soldiers love him, and would march with him into hell if he ordered it. He has the respect of his fellow centurions, and the regard of the tribunes and legates of more than one legion. I can think of no finer officer, no greater embodiment of virtus, than the man before me now.’ Germanicus extended his hands towards Tullus, palms up in recognition.
A moment’s pause, and then from across the training ground came a loud cry of ‘TUL-LUS! TUL-LUS!’
Tullus’ heart wrenched. Those were his soldiers’ voices – he would have staked his life on it. To his astonishment, the refrain was taken up, first by the Fifth’s other legionaries, and then by those of the Twenty-First. Even the auxiliaries joined in.
‘TUL-LUS! TUL-LUS!’
‘Tullus.’ Germanicus’ tone was commanding. Irresistible.
He lifted his head and met Germanicus’ gaze. ‘Sir?’
‘If Rome had ten thousand men like you, it would conquer the entire world.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Tullus, fighting to keep his voice from choking.
The cheering had died down, and Germanicus raised a hand for greater quiet. ‘In recognition of Tullus’ valiant service to the empire, he is to be promoted. Henceforth he will be known as Centurion Tullus of the Second Century, First Cohort, Fifth Legion!’
‘TUL-LUS! TUL-LUS!’
If it hadn’t been for the troops’ roars of approval, and the wind chilling his face, Tullus would have believed himself in a fantastic dream. This was a huge promotion. He gave Germanicus his best parade salute. ‘You do me great honour, sir!’
‘The honour is mine, Tullus.’ Germanicus’ tone was solemn. ‘I will have need of you again in the spring. Arminius and his allies must be defeated – and your legion’s eagle salvaged from the enemy.’
‘I’ll be ready, sir,’ said Tullus, bursting with pride.
PART ONE
Winter, AD 15
Near the Roman fort of Vetera, on the German frontier
Chapter I
TULLUS WAS WANDERING through the settlement near his camp, Vetera. Blue skies and sun aside, it was a bitter winter’s day; the icy air stung as he breathed in. A thick layer of snow decorated every house’s roof and the narrow alleys between; brown slush coated the paved streets. Every passer-by, whether civilian and military, wore a cloak. Even the stray dogs had a hunched, miserable look to them. In spite of the chill, Tullus’ mood was good. He was off duty, and back in the fort; everything was as it should be with his men. There was more to it than that, he decided. Since returning from the eastern side of the Rhenus three months before, life had been easy, slow – mundane.
Boredom was a better state to exist in than living under threat of attack night and day, which was how he and his men had spent the summer’s campaign. Tullus put from his mind the blood-drenched memories. Today he was going to relax, first with a soak and a massage in the settlement’s new-built baths. Afterwards, he’d savour good food and drink in his favourite local inn, the Ox and Plough.
The thought of its proprietor Sirona brought a smile to Tullus’ lined face. A feisty, warm-hearted Gaulish woman, she had a fine figure and a temper to match any centurion’s. He’d been chasing her on and off for years, and always been rebuffed. Tullus had decided in the end that a man had to keep his pride. Sirona was a lost cause, despite the access granted to him thanks to her care of Artio, his surrogate daughter. Although Tullus’ wooing had ceased, the passage of time had not seen the embers of his passion go cold.
When he’d come marching over the bridge from Germania, three months back, the Fates had smiled on him at last. Sirona’s smile for him then would have lit a dark room. Thus encouraged, Tullus had been swift to renew his suit. The first mistake had been to start after he’d consumed a decent quantity of confidence-boosting wine, the second his attempt to kiss Sirona at the same time. He could still feel the ringing slap she’d delivered to his cheek. Ten days had passed before a humiliated Tullus was allowed to re-enter her inn, and another twenty until relations had been restored to something near their previous cordiality.
‘More haste, less speed.’ Kicking at an untouched clump of pristine snow, he decided that marching to war was easier than trying to understand women.
‘Centurion,’ cried a passing legionary, saluting, and Tullus forgot Sirona. Images of the awards ceremony a month before filled his mind. It continued to feel strange that Germanicus had seen fit to elevate him to the post of second-ranking centurion in the First Cohort, and yet there it was – it had happened. Years back, when Tullus had led the Second Cohort of the Eighteenth, such an advancement had seemed possible, but the ignominy of having survived Arminius’ ambush had snuffed out his career opp
ortunities. Germanicus had seen something in him, however, and his recent recognition had made Tullus more senior to every centurion in the legion apart from the primus pilus.
The parading legionaries’ loud acclaim when Germanicus had finished speaking had deeply touched Tullus. Feeling awkward even at the memory, he glanced about. No one was looking of course, and he chuckled at himself. The smith over yonder was too busy hammering, and his apprentice watching, to pay heed to a passing soldier. The same applied to the cooper fitting iron rings to a new barrel, and the swearing carpenter whose saw had slipped, taking the skin off his knuckles. Other passers-by, cloaked and hooded, paid no heed either, keen as they were to reach their destinations.
Even the barefooted, skinny urchin sidling towards Tullus had his own purpose. ‘Spare a coin, sir?’ he pleaded.
Tullus’ usual response would have been to stride by with a curse, but the boy’s hollowed, chapped cheeks and twig-like limbs stirred his sympathy. I’m getting old and sentimental, he thought, searching in his purse and plucking out not just a copper as, but a silver denarius. ‘Get some hot food in you,’ he ordered. Sunlight winked off the coins as they spun through the air. ‘Buy yourself a cloak or a pair of shoes as well.’
Even as the urchin’s face twisted with delight – ‘A thousand blessings on you, sir!’ – his eyes flickered to the left.
Tullus’ gaze followed the boy’s, and he swore under his breath. Lounging against a shopfront was another urchin. This one was well fed, three times the size of the starveling before him, and his smirk revealed that he’d seen what had gone on. The instant that Tullus had moved on, he would take the coins for his own. Twig Limbs would be powerless to resist.
Tullus’ anger flared, and he strode forward, trapping the better-fed urchin against the shop wall with the head of his vitis, or vine stick.
A loud squawk. ‘I haven’t done nothing, sir!’
‘But you would have, maggot. You were going to steal my money from him, weren’t you?’ demanded Tullus, jerking his head at Twig Limbs, who was watching with eyes the size of plates.
‘No, I wasn’t, sir! I—’ The urchin’s protest turned into an oomph of pain as Tullus’ vitis drove partway into his belly.
‘Don’t lie to me.’ Tullus’ flinty gaze, used to making hardened soldiers recoil, bored into the urchin. He was quick to look down, and Tullus hissed in his ear, ‘If anyone lays a finger on that boy, or takes his coins – that means you and your lowlife cronies – I will hunt you down, and by all the gods, you’ll regret the day you were whelped. D’you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The urchin’s tone was two notes higher than it had been. ‘I won’t go near him, sir, on my mother’s life.’
Tullus lowered his vitis, allowing his victim to scuttle away. The boy didn’t dare to look back.
Tullus waited until he’d gone, and wasn’t surprised that Twig Limbs was still standing there, hero worship filling his eyes. ‘Gratitude, sir. He’s a nasty one. He—’
Wishing to keep his distance, Tullus cut him off. ‘Don’t share that money with anyone.’
‘I won’t, sir, and if I can ever help …’ Twig Limbs’ voice died away as his confidence did. His shoulders slumped.
Knowing he meant well, Tullus gave him a clout on the shoulder and walked away. Urchins like Twig Limbs were as plentiful as the stars in the sky. He couldn’t help them all, nor did he want to, and there was no point getting close to one, or he’d never have any peace. Like as not, his gesture meant that he would be descended upon every time he entered the settlement from now on, for Twig Limbs would surely blab about his unexpected windfall to his friends. Or perhaps he wouldn’t, Tullus decided. The fewer people who knew, the more chance the boy would keep his money.
Thoughts of street urchins made Tullus feel his purse, checking that it hadn’t been slit. A pleasing quantity of coins lay within – Germanicus’ recognition had included a sizeable cash donative. Spurred by his recent near experiences with death, Tullus was in the mood to begin spending his reward – but on what, he wasn’t sure. His armour and equipment was of fine quality, and not in need of replacement. His calf-length boots were only two years old, and worn though his metalled belt was, he was attached to it. His polished vitis was like an extension of his right arm, and would see him into grey-bearded dotage.
On impulse, he stopped by a jeweller’s premises, not something he’d ever done, and there browsed the display. Most of the goods were simple, low-priced items: the bronze ram’s head bracelets, phallus and tiny gladius amulets favoured by legionaries, and the polished stone necklaces worn by their women. Higher-priced trinkets had been placed further back, close to the keen-eyed shopkeeper; more were on display in the shop. Reluctant to enter – what did he know about jewellery? – Tullus leaned forward to study some pearl earrings, a carnelian bracelet and a selection of silver necklaces. Frustrated, for he had no idea what Sirona would like, and too proud to ask, he walked away.
‘Sir?’ called the proprietor, a round-shouldered old Gaul with a silver beard. ‘Can I be of help, sir?’
Tullus turned, feeling as awkward as if he’d been caught thieving. ‘I need a present, for a lady friend.’
‘You’ll find something delightful here, sir, I promise you! Won’t you step inside?’
Tullus would have rather attacked a German shield wall, but he did want a present for Sirona, and there was less chance of being seen or recognised off the street. Almost able to hear his fellow centurions’ jokes – ‘Buying trinkets for your lover now, Tullus?’ ‘Sirona let you get your leg over at last, eh?’ – he ducked his head to avoid the low lintel and went in.
The premises were larger than they looked from outside, a long room part filled with display cases and cabinets, with worktables manned by busy craftsmen at the back. ‘I can’t stay long,’ he said, suspecting from the shopkeeper’s smooth manner that he was practised at keeping customers on his premises until they bought something.
‘Your time is precious, sir, I know that. You do me honour even to cross the threshold,’ the jeweller said, and bowed.
Tullus raised an eyebrow. There was no mistaking that he was an officer – the cut of his clothing and armour would tell anyone that, but the old man had no reason to think that he was anything more than a veteran optio, or perhaps a low-ranking centurion. Nonetheless, thought Tullus, it paid to be cautious. If the jeweller had the slightest inkling of his rank, everything in the place would triple in price.
‘Just so you know, my purse is light,’ said Tullus. ‘Payday isn’t for another while yet.’
‘There are beautiful pieces to suit every taste, sir,’ replied the jeweller with impressive diplomacy. ‘How much were you thinking of spending?’
This was his opening gambit, thought Tullus, but two could play at that game. ‘Show me your wares first. You can tell me their prices as I look. Start with those bracelets.’
‘Of course, sir.’ The jeweller wasn’t quite able to hide his disappointment.
I was right, Tullus decided. The rogue is out to fleece me. Sure enough, the cost of the bracelets – a fine variety made from silver, gold, agate, red coral and even amber – was exorbitant. It was no better with the earrings and necklaces. ‘Stop,’ he ordered as the jeweller moved on to a gold filigree diadem encrusted with tiny gemstones. ‘What do you think I am, a legate?’
The jeweller’s smile was sly. ‘No, sir, a centurion, newly promoted to the First Cohort.’
‘You recognise me?’ demanded Tullus, surprised.
The jeweller looked scandalised. ‘You’re a famous man, sir! Everyone in the settlement knows you, and how you survived the ambush on Varus and his legions. You’re a hero, sir.’
Tullus’ cheeks were warm now, which he didn’t like one bit. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear.’
‘Germanicus saw fit to honour you, sir.’
Defeated by this, Tullus threw him a glare. ‘I did what anyone would have.’
‘As you sa
y, sir.’ In spite of his previous acquisitive manner, there was respect in the jeweller’s voice. ‘It goes without saying that a man of your stature would receive a good discount.’ He reeled off the pieces which Tullus had lingered over, reducing their cost by a third or more.
Tullus chuckled, amused by the jeweller’s performance and sure that he would still make a healthy profit. Trusting his gut instinct, Tullus studied again the items that had first caught his eye and settled on a simple yet elegant bracelet fashioned from four silver plaits. A short but intense spell of haggling saw him beat the old man down to half his original price without looking too unhappy. Tullus was also content, and bargaining any harder would take more of his time than he was prepared to give.
‘Your lady friend will love this,’ the jeweller pronounced, slipping the bracelet into a soft goatskin bag. ‘Perhaps you can visit with her one day.’
Tullus grunted, yet unsure that his gift would even be accepted, let alone received well. This approach had to be better than trying to make physical advances, he thought. Didn’t it?
There was a distinctive crack as two heads collided, and Tullus glanced outside. Two men travelling in opposite directions had walked into one another. Angry shouts and insults were hurled as both denied responsibility for the accident. Uncaring, for neither were soldiers, Tullus was about to pay the shopkeeper when he caught a glimpse of a familiar face. It was one he hadn’t seen for months, and which he would not have expected to see on this side of the Rhenus. ‘Degmar?’ he cried. ‘Is that you?’
The young Marsi warrior stared into the shop with an amazed expression. There was no question it was Degmar – Tullus would have recognised him anywhere – but rather than give any acknowledgement, he darted down an alleyway opposite.
‘Here.’ Tullus slapped down some coins, snatched up his bracelet and made for the door.