by Ben Kane
Metilius began to snore, and Piso smiled. He was a little drowsy himself, but the fire had burned right down, and his shoulders and back were feeling the cold. It wasn’t yet warm enough to stay outside all night, at least without blankets. Still, it had been an enjoyable evening. About to poke Metilius with his sandal, an unexpected sound made him freeze. Splash.
Splash. There it was again – the gentle sound of oars dipping in and out of the water. A sudden sweat prickled Piso’s brow, and he stared into the darkness. There were no naval craft on the river at this hour – he’d wager a month’s pay on it. Night patrols were dangerous, and therefore only undertaken in times of dire necessity.
On instinct, he extinguished the fire with a few gentle stamps. Leaning over Metilius, Piso covered his mouth and hissed, ‘Wake up, brother – nice and quiet!’
Metilius’ eyes opened at once and filled with alarm, but he didn’t make a sound.
Piso took away his hand. ‘There’s someone out there in a boat.’
‘Tribesmen?’ whispered Metilius.
‘At this hour, who else would it be?’
‘We must have sentries about, surely?’
‘I can’t see any near us,’ replied Piso, peering. ‘The finished craft are guarded right enough, but who’d think to place a watch on piles of planking?’
‘And here we are with only our daggers.’ Metilius scowled. ‘Baldy would have something to say, eh?’
‘Shhhh.’ The splashing had stopped, but now Piso could hear men stepping out of their boat and into the shallows. He pointed towards the construction area, which was to their left. ‘They’re coming ashore, over there.’
‘Between us and the rest of the ships, and the sentries,’ whispered Metilius with dismay. ‘We’re cut off and outnumbered. Best thing to do is lie low. They’ll never know we were here.’
‘And let them get away with whatever they’re about to do?’ retorted Piso in a furious hiss. ‘Take out your dagger, and follow me.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Get closer, see how many of them there are, and raise the alarm.’
‘This wasn’t what I planned for the evening,’ grumbled Metilius, but he trailed after Piso all the same.
He left the remaining tench behind. It was wasteful, and Dulcius and the others would complain, but that was preferable to being lumbered with them in a dangerous situation. Grateful that they hadn’t had any wine, Piso padded towards the mass of dark outlines that were the half-built vessels. He reached the first hulk without having seen anyone and, pausing, conferred with Metilius.
‘It’ll be safer to stay on the fort side of the ships,’ muttered Piso. ‘Stray too near the water, and we risk being trapped. Go the other way, and we can run towards the fort if needs be.’
Metilius grimaced. ‘I don’t like it. Two of us against gods know how many?’
‘I don’t fucking like it either, but it’s our duty to do something. D’you think Tullus would hold back?’
‘Course not, but he’s a proper hero.’
‘And you’re one of his brave men.’ Piso clapped Metilius on the arm, hoping that his own growing nerves weren’t showing. ‘We move fast,’ he hissed. ‘Keep close. Stay low. If we get separated, don’t wait for me. Make your own way to the dock, and raise the alarm.’
‘Aye.’ Metilius’ voice was unhappy but resolute.
Reassured, Piso crept to the ship’s prow. Pinpricks of light marked the sentries’ fires, some quarter of a mile away by the new dock. Looming above all was the fort, with its thousands of soldiers. Those men might as well be in Rome, thought Piso, fighting fear. Their best hope was that there weren’t too many interlopers for the nearest guards to deal with. For long moments, he studied the darkness to the right – where he’d heard the splashing – and was frustrated to see only half-constructed ships. Piso began to wonder if he’d imagined the sound of a boat.
‘What’s that?’ Metilius hissed in his ear. ‘Listen.’
At first, Piso could discern nothing, but then … men’s voices, not far away, and to the right. His guts lurched, but he gritted his teeth. ‘Come on.’
Like two thieves, they stole towards the sounds, which were rising from behind the second hull. Inspiration took Piso and, getting down on to his knees, he crawled under the upturned ship. Metilius scrambled in after him. Thus protected, they were able to see the craft’s other side, up to knee height. Piso’s heart thudded – he could count at least ten pairs of legs. They were clad in trousers, which confirmed their identity as tribesmen, and their intent as malign. Worse still, he heard muttering in German. When he concentrated, it became discernible. ‘Stay your hand,’ ordered a voice. ‘We’re to light the ships at the same time. That way, more will burn before the Romans react.’
How Piso wished at that moment that he had his entire contubernium with him. Even with their daggers, they could have taken down half a dozen of the warriors from this position, and then finished the rest. The wisdom of his idea was soon called into question as more sets of legs came into sight. Dry-mouthed now, Piso pointed; Metilius gave him a grim nod back. At least two boats had landed, if not more. It was time to get away and raise the alarm, before they were seen or heard. Piso jerked a thumb at the direction they’d come and, looking relieved, Metilius mouthed ‘Aye’.
What they hadn’t anticipated was for a warrior to have broken away from his comrades in order to empty his bladder. On his hands and knees as he emerged, Piso was horrified to see the man not three paces away, decorating the next hull along with an arc of urine. His spear was leaning against the ship’s timbers. Although Piso, and Metilius behind him, were moving quietly, the warrior still heard them.
He turned, prick in hand, the stream of his piss curving with him, and his jaw dropped. Frantic, Piso stood, pulled out his dagger and threw himself forward. Warm droplets showered his legs, but there was no time to feel disgust, only fear. His initial blow, ill aimed, struck the warrior in the belly. A roar of agony tore the night air, and the man staggered. Wits gathered, Piso moved behind him and, with expert precision, drew his head back and cut his throat. Blood sprayed over the hull, washing away the urine, and Piso let the warrior drop. ‘If you want to live, run,’ he hissed at Metilius, who was gaping at him like a fool. ‘Towards the dock. Go!’
Daggers in hand, they sprinted away from the river and the night raiders. Cries of alarm were rising behind them; Piso could make out pounding feet too. Let them go around the ship’s stern, he prayed, not the prow. Please.
Their luck was in. No warriors were visible as they came out from between the inverted boats and turned sharp right towards the dock. Thanks to several watch fires, they could see the sentries. Angry shouts went up as their flight was heard, which spurred Piso and Metilius to greater efforts. They covered a hundred paces without encountering the enemy, and Piso shot a glance over his shoulder. A curse escaped his lips. Rather than give pursuit, the warriors had returned to their original purpose. Flames were licking from two hulls and, outlined by the light, Piso could make out figures setting torches to more.
‘Hurry,’ he urged.
‘I’m no runner,’ wheezed Metilius, but he managed to keep up with Piso as he belted on.
The sentries saw them coming, thanks to the burning ships behind them. ‘Halt! Halt!’ challenged a not-altogether-steady voice.
‘We’re legionaries like you,’ roared Piso.
The sentry didn’t hear, or his fear got the better of him. A javelin came hurtling through the air, driving between Piso and Metilius.
Piso screeched to a halt, aware that the man’s companions might do the same. He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘WE’RE ROMAN, LIKE YOU! LET US APPROACH.’
‘You’re Roman?’ came the confused reply.
‘Yes, yes,’ cried Piso, walking forward with Metilius.
‘What’s the password then?’
‘I don’t fucking know!’ cried Piso with rising frustration.
‘Yo
u could be German then – stay where you are!’
Piso had had enough. ‘How many filthy Germans speak Latin like me, cocksucker? D’you see those flames back there? That’s burning boats. A raiding party has landed, and we’ve come to tell your officer, so he can do something. Unless you want to be the imbecile responsible for half of Germanicus’ fleet being destroyed, I suggest you let us past!’
A moment’s hesitation, and then the sentry growled, ‘All right, but walk nice and slow – and keep your hands in the air.’
Sharing a furious glance, the pair did as they’d been told.
They were met by four nervous-looking legionaries, three of whom held levelled javelins. The last, the man who’d thrown his, had his sword out and ready. By the look of his smooth cheeks, he hadn’t been in the army long. ‘Names and units,’ he demanded.
‘Marcus Piso and Caius Metilius, Second Century, First Cohort of the Fifth,’ snarled Piso. ‘We used to be in the Eighteenth. Know that we were fighting through the Saltus Teutoburgiensis while you were still sucking your mother’s tit, and men like us don’t need maggots like you screwing us over.’
The last of the sentry’s confidence dissipated. ‘I was just doing my job,’ he said, looking to his companions for support, but they were studying Piso and Metilius with new respect.
‘Consider yourself lucky that you’re shit at throwing javelins,’ retorted Piso. ‘Now, unless you want more ships to burn, take us to your officer!’
The poor light couldn’t conceal the rising stain on the soldier’s cheeks. ‘This way,’ he muttered.
To Piso’s relief, the optio in charge of the sentries acted the instant he and Metilius had explained what was going on. By happy chance, a patrol vessel had just returned late, and the centurion in charge was more than happy to add his legionaries to the twenty men gathered by the optio. Without armour and proper weapons, Piso and Metilius could not participate, but they watched as the force marched at the double towards the now bright-lit scene. ‘Come on, you boys in blue!’ roared the centurion.
Faced with a hundred battle-ready legionaries, the warriors fled to their boats. A short but vicious fight followed, which Piso could not see, but when the legionaries returned, a few men short, it transpired that they had managed to hole one of the attackers’ craft so that it sank close to shore. A handful of tribesmen had got away, but most of their number were dead. Twelve hulls had been burned but, as the centurion told a grinning Piso and Metilius, there would have been far more if they hadn’t raised the alarm. ‘Good work, boys,’ he said, clapping them both on the arm. ‘Who’s your centurion?’
‘Centurion Tullus, Second Century, First Cohort, Fifth Legion, sir,’ answered Piso with pride.
‘I know Tullus,’ said the centurion, nodding. ‘A fine officer. Speaks well of his men too.’ Embarrassed, Piso and Metilius shuffled to and fro, and the centurion laughed. ‘You’re to be commended for your actions. I’ll see that Tullus hears of it.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ echoed the pair.
‘Back to the fort with you,’ ordered the centurion. ‘A few cups of wine are in order, I would think. Your mates will want to hear what you’ve been up to.’
Saluting, the two friends began tracing their way to the east gate. After a distance, Piso remembered the fish. ‘Dulcius and the rest won’t be too happy when we return empty-handed.’
‘Screw ’em,’ declared Metilius with an evil smile. ‘We’re the ones with the exciting news. They can share their wine with us just to hear it.’
‘Aye,’ said Piso. ‘Lucky we were there, eh?’
‘Luckier still that you heard them. I’d have slept through the whole thing.’
‘Arminius was behind it too, like as not,’ said Piso. ‘If he was, his reach has grown long indeed, to persuade the local tribes to attempt this.’
‘Arminius might not be responsible. The Usipetes and the Marsi hate Rome as much as any tribe. Remember the attack on Germanicus?’
‘True enough.’ Piso’s mind filled with dark thoughts of Degmar – Tullus had told them about his involvement in the assassination attempt. Whether Degmar had been here or not, the attack meant that the local peoples had lost none of their desire to fight Rome. Piso’s earlier certainty of victory in the spring now seemed a trifle over-confident.
If only it were possible to offer a prayer to the eagle, he thought wistfully.
Chapter VII
PISO WAS TRUDGING along one of the fort’s main avenues with his five tent mates. It was early evening a day later, and their duties were done. His excitement, which had been bubbling up since the idea of paying their respects to the legion’s eagle had been discussed, waned as the headquarters came into sight. It wasn’t usual for ordinary legionaries to visit the shrine – in fact, Piso had never heard of it – but none of them could recall a specific regulation that prohibited the practice. In the comfort of their barrack room, bellies full of wine, his plan had seemed excellent, a way to venerate their legion’s standard and ask for its help in the battles to come. With a little luck, it might ensure a safe return from the looming campaign. Now, with a steady rain soaking through their tunics, and the obstacle of the headquarters’ sentries drawing close, it seemed drink-fuelled stupidity of the finest kind. Piso searched Metilius’ face, seeing his own uncertainty mirrored. Unwilling to be the first to express apprehension, he kept walking.
A hundred paces from the imposing main entrance, Metilius cracked. ‘Is this wise?’
His comment freed the logjam.
‘We won’t get over the threshold,’ declared Dulcius.
‘Even if we do, an officer will soon challenge us,’ said Calvus, a gangling farmer and the newest addition to their contubernium. A genial, talkative type, he would tell anyone who listened how he’d only joined the legions out of desperation after cattle plague had wiped out his entire herd.
The two others rumbled their agreement.
Piso’s courage rallied. ‘We have to try! The Fifth is providing the sentries for the next three days, remember? Come on.’ He strode off, praying that his attempt to shame them would work. Ten paces, and he was still alone. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. Twelve. Fifteen.
‘Stupid prick,’ said Metilius, catching up.
‘You’re no better,’ Piso shot back, grinning. They had all joined him.
‘If we get punishment duty because of this, you’re buying the wine,’ said Calvus. Being a new recruit with little money didn’t stop him being generous with his wine.
‘Agreed,’ said Piso. ‘It’ll be cheap, mind. Decent stuff would be wasted on you savages.’
Their good-natured banter died away as the entrance drew near. Four sentries, stiff-backed, alert, were on guard outside the large double doors. Piso’s first thought had been to slip inside as a wagon rolled in, but the sentries were standing on both sides of the threshold. ‘Any ideas?’ he asked of no one in particular.
‘Tell them the truth?’ suggested Calvus. A barrage of abuse rained down, and he scowled.
‘They’ll smell the wine on our breaths, and tell us to piss off,’ said Piso.
Other suggestions were aired, but none were feasible. Piso’s certainty ebbed further.
‘There’s Tubero,’ said Metilius.
The sight of their legate striding towards the headquarters from the opposite direction made everyone take a sudden interest in the ground. Bad-tempered, arrogant and a vicious disciplinarian, Tubero was hated by one and all. Anyone who had been in the Eighteenth had extra reason to wish him ill. Years before, Tubero had deliberately ordered Tullus and some of his men into a situation that by rights should have seen them killed.
‘Best leave it,’ said Metilius. ‘If Tubero recognises any of us, we’ll be on latrine duties for a year.’
Piso smiled as the rest voiced reluctant agreement. ‘No, Tubero gives us the perfect excuse,’ he said.
‘You must have drunk more wine than I thought.’ Metilius jerked a thumb in the direction o
f their barracks. ‘Let’s go back.’
Piso shook his head. ‘We wait a few moments, until the prick’s got to wherever he’s going, and then we tell the sentries the entire contubernium is on a punishment detail. We are to be made an example of, and we have to attend him in his office.’
‘You don’t know what Tubero’s doing. He could be meeting another officer,’ countered Dulcius.
Piso smirked. ‘The sentries don’t know that.’
‘This is getting out of hand,’ said Metilius, looking worried. ‘If Tubero finds out that we lied to get into the headquarters …’
‘He won’t. Fortuna’s with us – I can feel it!’ Piso studied his friends’ faces. Dulcius and a second man seemed with him, but Metilius and the rest appeared unconvinced. ‘You want to pray to the eagle, don’t you?’ Piso challenged.
‘Aye,’ replied Calvus.
‘This will be your only chance,’ said Piso, adopting Tullus’ parade-ground voice.
‘Fuck it.’ To Piso’s surprise and pleasure, Calvus moved to stand beside him.
Metilius rolled his eyes. ‘You’d better be right about Fortuna, Piso.’
Piso marched confidently towards the entrance, praying he was.
To his surprise and delight, the sentries accepted his story. One was even sympathetic. ‘Tubero’s in a foul humour, brother. Gods grant his mood improves before you find him.’
Muttering his thanks, Piso ushered his comrades inside. Three paces inside the large courtyard, and the foolhardiness of what he’d done sank in. The beating heart of the fort, the headquarters was full of senior officers talking together, or moving between the many offices. There were plenty of clerks and scribes too, but their soft hands and spotless tunics only made Piso and his companions appear more out of place. Ordinary legionaries were visible, but not many. A pair were sweeping the colonnaded walkway that lined three sides of the square, and another four staggered along behind a quartermaster, carrying a metal-bound chest. That was it when it came to the rank and file, and here they were, thought Piso in horror, half a dozen pissed soldiers with no real purpose.