Eagles in the Storm

by Ben Kane

  A tickle of dread caressed Tullus’ spine. Fortuna, don’t let infection set in, he asked. Anything but gangrene. ‘What will the lasting damage be? I’m an old-fashioned centurion, see. Oftentimes, I march with my men.’

  ‘You’ll limp a little for the rest of your life, sir. You might also need a wrap of leather around the stump of the toe, but I see no reason why you shouldn’t be able to march once it has healed.’

  Tullus could have kissed the surgeon. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m just doing my job, sir.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ Tullus coughed. ‘My manner before – excuse it, won’t you? I was worried. The army’s everything to me. If I had to leave because of a fucking toe …’ Embarrassed by his outburst, surprised at himself, Tullus’ voice died away.

  ‘I understand.’

  Tullus met the surgeon’s gaze with difficulty, but saw only compassion. He nodded.

  Swift and sure, the surgeon cleaned the area with vinegar, stitched Tullus’ cut toes and bandaged the foot. ‘There. I’m done. If you’ll excuse me, sir? I’m needed elsewhere.’

  ‘Of course.’

  With his orderly trailing after, the surgeon headed towards the wounded men.

  ‘Surgeon!’ called Tullus.

  He turned. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Arimnestos.’

  ‘Thank you, Arimnestos.’

  Looking pleased, the surgeon raised a hand and walked on.

  Left alone, with his men toiling under Fenestela’s watchful eye, Tullus was soon at a loss. Unwilling just to sit there, he picked up the ruins of his left boot. There was no chance of wearing it – Arimnestos had sliced the upper almost completely away from the sole – so he had Piso strip a pair of sandals from one of the dead soldiers. The left one wasn’t a perfect fit, but it did the job. His injured foot wasn’t enclosed and, more important, he could walk. Pulses of pain rose from his toe the instant he put weight on the leg. Cautious, he moved about nice and easy, ten paces this way, ten that, until he was happy the bleeding hadn’t started again. It felt as if a smith had used his biggest hammer on his foot, but he didn’t care. He was mobile once more.

  Chapter XXX

  OVERHEAD, THE SKY was darkening. Light from the setting sun turned the ribbons of high cloud pink, red and every shade in between. Hundreds of swallows dipped and dived, feeding off insects, their high-pitched skirrs a reminder that high summer was here. Piso could have stared at the birds forever, but sleep threatened to take him long before that happened. He was sprawled by his tent, bone-tired. Exhausted. Fighting in the brutal heat had been strength-sapping, but helping to construct one of the army’s camps afterward had drained the last of his energy. Even the grief he felt for Calvus was dull.

  Afternoon had been passing before the last Germans had retreated. Many of the Roman troops had now returned, but columns continued to straggle in from the battlefield. The soldiers looked spent. Reports were that men were dropping not just from exhaustion and sun fever, but thirst.

  Still dry-mouthed himself, Piso leaned up on an elbow and gulped a mouthful from his leather skin. Another trip to the Visurgis would be in order at dawn – he’d get permission from Tullus to take a dozen men. Piso had every intention of a sly dip in the river when the chance came – washing off today’s blood, dust and grime would feel wonderful.

  The delicious aroma of baking bread made his belly growl. He sat up.

  It was Metilius’ turn to cook, but his bruised collar bone had reduced him to temporary one-handedness. Sent back to his comrades by the surgeon – ‘I’m in better shape than most of the poor cocksuckers in the hospital,’ he’d declared – Metilius was making the most of being an invalid. ‘Come on, Dulcius,’ he needled. ‘Those breads are starting to scorch.’

  ‘Aye, Metilius is right,’ said Piso, happy to stir up mischief.

  Dulcius, more red-cheeked than ever thanks to the sun and the fire he was tending, scowled. ‘Here!’ he cried, proffering some long iron tongs to Metilius. ‘Nothing wrong with your left hand, is there?’

  ‘They’re burning!’ cried Metilius, pointing rather than accepting the tongs.

  With a hair-whitening curse, Dulcius picked up one of the unleavened flatbreads that decorated the large flat stones ringing the fire. A staple on campaign, they were cooked by continuous rotation towards the heat, a task which required great vigilance and not a little patience. ‘Catch!’ Dulcius flung the bread, forcing Metilius to duck or be struck in the head. It landed on the ground behind him.

  ‘It’s covered in dust. And burned,’ Metilius complained, but everyone was too busy laughing to hear.

  ‘As if you’ve never done the same,’ said Piso when the amusement had died down.

  Flatbread on his knee, brushing off dirt, Metilius glowered.

  ‘Piso.’ Dulcius tossed another bread into the air.

  Piso grabbed it with both hands. Piping hot, charred in places and half-cooked in others, it tasted better than many proper meals he’d had. ‘Anyone got any wine?’

  ‘I have,’ replied Metilius, his tone sour.

  ‘Get it out then,’ demanded Piso.

  ‘Aye, I’m parched.’ This from Dulcius.

  Metilius handed his skin over with poor grace. He paced after it as it went around the fire. As Dulcius reached out, Metilius snatched the skin away. ‘You’re not having any, you prick, until I have another flatbread. That one there – the best one.’

  A sullen Dulcius handed over a fine, well-cooked bread. Metilius, who had thought to place his wine behind him, took it with a smirk. ‘There you go,’ he said, nudging the skin with his sandal. ‘One swallow, mind.’

  Sly, Dulcius produced unseen his own clay beaker and, as Metilius tucked into the flatbread, poured himself a hearty measure. ‘Gratitude, brother,’ he said, planting the now sagging skin by Metilius’ feet.

  Metilius realised at once what had happened. ‘You filth!’ With his good hand full of bread, he could only lunge at Dulcius’ cup. Dulcius, laughing, spun out of the way, but placed an inadvertent sandal in the fire. Sparks flew, wood cracked and he leaped out of harm’s way with a shocked roar.

  Piso, Metilius and the rest collapsed with laughter. Dulcius stamped about, pride hurt more than anything, taking furious slurps of his wine.

  ‘I’d pay good money to see this on the stage,’ said Piso, wiping tears from his eyes. ‘You two should pair up when you leave the army. I can see the notices now: “Metilius and Dulcius – clowns, acrobats and general fools. Three performances daily.”’

  Both Metilius and Dulcius told him what he could do with his suggestion, and a grinning Piso shrugged. ‘You won’t be much good at anything else – I’d give it serious thought.’

  ‘Who won’t be good at what?’ boomed Tullus, limping up to their fire.

  Piso explained, delighted inside to see Tullus hale and relatively unscathed. There wasn’t a man in the century or cohort who hadn’t been worried about his injury, thought Piso. ‘It’s fine to see you on your feet, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Takes more than a flesh wound to stop me.’ Tullus’ gaze roved over them. ‘It’s always the same. How long do I have to stand here before you offer me a drink? Don’t think I haven’t noticed that skin you’re holding, Metilius.’

  A cup was hurriedly produced, filled and handed over. Tullus nodded his thanks and waited until every man had stood up, beaker or cup in hand. He raised his arm. ‘A toast. To Calvus. To the rest of our dead comrades, far too many of whom left this life today. They will not be forgotten.’

  ‘To Calvus,’ said Piso. Although he’d been careful not to get over-friendly with the gangling farmer, his death hurt nonetheless. ‘To dead comrades.’

  They all drained their cups. Sombre-faced, they glanced at one another. No words were necessary, thought Piso. He and his comrades were alive. That was more important than the day’s victory.

  ‘The trumpets will soon sound.�
� Tullus let out an evil chuckle as they tensed. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Germanicus is to address the troops – this camp first. We’re to assemble on the intervallum.’ This large space between the inner aspect of the camp walls and the first tents served as protection from enemy missiles; it was also a place to gather.

  Relieved, Piso asked, ‘What’s it about, sir?’

  ‘You know as much as I do.’ Tullus winked. ‘Never fear, it won’t be to do with Macula.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Piso flushed, wondering if Tullus knew he’d been to see the dog the day before. The mule-handler selected by Tullus was looking after Macula well, but it would be some time before it was safe enough to bring the animal back to the century. Tubero was not one to forget.

  Sweaty despite having shed their armour, they belted on their swords and formed up with the rest of the men. In the nearby tent lines, the entire cohort was also getting ready. Led by Tullus and Fenestela, they marched out at an easy pace. More interested in cooking and eating or just resting, soldiers from other units paid them little heed. The avenues were quiet; most of the traffic consisted of messengers or those unfortunates with official duties.

  Piso’s hunch that Tullus was taking them to the intervallum early to get a good spot proved correct. He led them towards a section of the rampart close to the main gate. Torches flamed from the top of the defences; a large fire close to the wall lit the scene with an orange glare. A century of Praetorians was already in place. Perhaps two hundred other soldiers were waiting – other men with swift-thinking officers, thought Piso. Tullus stopped near the blaze, right below the walkway that ran along the top of the defences. He gave a nod to the nearest Praetorian officer, an optio in a battered helmet that was missing its crest.

  The optio saluted. ‘Primus pilus.’

  ‘A tough fight today,’ said Tullus. ‘I heard your lot did well.’

  ‘We did all right, sir,’ replied the optio.

  Ten heartbeats went by, and it became clear that the optio had no intention of mentioning Tullus’ soldiers, who had been first on to the enemy rampart.

  Tullus’ face grew dark at this deliberate slight. In the end, he took a quick look over his shoulder. ‘You’re good boys. Better than any other troops,’ he said.

  Fucking Praetorians, Piso mouthed to Metilius, who in turn made a discreet obscene gesture at the optio.

  Not long after, trumpets summoned the two legions in the camp to the intervallum. Time passed. Darkness was spreading across the cloudless sky; stars were appearing. Only the western horizon remained bright. Despite their central position, it didn’t take long for Piso and his companions to grow bored. Incensed by the Praetorian optio’s disrespect, confident since his prank on Tubero, Piso had a devilish idea. ‘Sir?’

  Tullus raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Permission to go for a piss, sir?’

  ‘Make it quick.’

  ‘I will, sir.’ Ignoring Metilius’ whispered question about what he was really doing, Piso sidled off, as if towards the latrines.

  Piso’s mission took longer than expected. When he returned, night had fallen and both legions were in place. There had been no cheering, which was something – Germanicus had not yet arrived, so he’d made it in time. Tullus would be unhappy with the length of his absence, but that would be it. Careful to avoid officers’ eyes, Piso hurried between the files of men, using the firelight to guide him towards his century.

  ‘Where in Hades have you been?’ hissed Metilius as Piso wormed his way into their midst.

  ‘You must have the shits.’ Dulcius smirked. ‘Glad I wasn’t anywhere near.’

  Their sotto voce questions and comments continued. Tickled first by their curiosity and then by their annoyance, Piso didn’t answer.

  Even in the sixth rank, it didn’t take Tullus long to spot him. ‘What took you so long?’ he barked.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Diarrhoea, sir.’ The sniggers from his comrades started at once. He’d never hear the end of it, thought Piso, but no other excuse would serve.

  Frowning, Tullus seemed about to say more, but was prevented by Germanicus’ arrival. Spontaneous, loud cheering erupted. Thousands of hobnailed sandals pounded the earth. The Praetorians came to attention. Light bounced off Germanicus’ armour as he bounded up to the walkway atop the rampart. Tall, regal, impressive, he faced the massed soldiers.

  ‘GER-MAN-I-CUS!’ The cheering redoubled.

  The contrast between the governor and the filthy, blood-spattered legionaries could not have been more stark, or inspiring. Burnished bronze inlaid with silver. Crimson feathers. Red silk sash. Polished leather. Everything about Germanicus oozed power, wealth and status. Quiet fell, but rather than speak straightaway, he let the soldiers’ expectations rise.

  What a general, thought Piso with fierce pride. Our general!

  ‘Soldiers of Rome!’ Germanicus’ voice was pitched to carry. ‘Today’s battle was long and hard-fought.’

  Heads nodded. Men clapped comrades on the shoulder, growling in agreement.

  ‘Despite the heat, the conditions and the enemy’s determination, you prevailed. You are true sons of Rome! I salute you for your valour. Your resilience. Your devotion!’ Germanicus extended his arms, palms uppermost.

  Piso roared with the rest, long and hard, stopping only when his voice cracked.

  Calm, composed, Germanicus waited until the clamour had ebbed away. ‘Many of your brothers fell today, but their sacrifice will always be remembered!’ Again the troops roared their appreciation. Germanicus continued, ‘Come the dawn, work parties will be sent to find each and every body, whether they be legionary or auxiliary. The funeral pyres will be seen for miles, a warning to the savages that we yet remain in their territory. Upon our return to the Rhenus, every fallen soldier shall have a gravestone built – at my expense. Monies will be paid to those with families. Those soldiers whose wounds necessitate military discharge shall not go without either. Nor shall you brave men – come the next payday, every last one of you will receive a donative of seventy-five denarii.’

  Cheering broke out as the delighted legionaries voiced their gratitude.

  Germanicus next announced that the summer campaign was over, precipitating more celebration. When wagons arrived to distribute his own stores of wine, the troops went wild. Few noticed as the governor descended the steps and rode away, preceded by his Praetorians.

  ‘Three months’ pay and a skinful of the governor’s wine – not fucking bad for one battle,’ opined Metilius.

  ‘It’s worth a toast of this,’ said Piso, ducking down and taking a long slurp from the wine skin he’d just plucked from hiding. Helped by the dim light, no one had noticed his ‘paunch’ – in reality, the leather bag sitting under his tunic at belly level, held in place by his belts. ‘Here.’ He thrust the skin at Metilius.

  ‘It wasn’t the shits had you gone so long – you were thieving this!’

  Piso’s shrug was nonchalant.

  Metilius wiped his lips and handed the skin to a beaming Dulcius. ‘Where did you get it? Not Tubero’s quarters?’

  ‘Even I’m not stupid enough to risk that again. It was from—’ Piso was silenced by a sharp jab in the ribs from Metilius.

  It was too late. Tullus – where in all the gods’ names had he come from? wondered a panicking Piso – had already snatched the wine skin from Dulcius. ‘You didn’t visit the latrines, Piso.’ Tullus’ tone was menacing. ‘Where did you pilfer this?’

  ‘It’s mine, sir. I went back to get it – I thought a toast to Germanicus would be appropriate. You know, after he led us to victory today.’ Piso’s voice died away.

  Tullus shoved his way in to stand right before Piso. ‘D’you think I was born fucking yesterday?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Piso’s mouth had gone bone dry. On either side, his comrades stood stiff as posts. Theft from another soldier was a serious offence, and they all knew it. Since deep antiquity, the punishment had been being beaten to death by one’s te
nt mates. Nowadays, miscreants tended to be whipped and have their pay withheld – but that didn’t mean the death sentence wasn’t possible.

  Tullus stuck his face into Piso’s. ‘Tell me, please, that you didn’t take it from anyone in the Fifth.’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’

  ‘Don’t “Of course not” me, maggot!’ Tullus jabbed Piso in the chest with a forefinger once, twice. ‘Where. Did. You. Get. It?’

  ‘In a Praetorian tent, sir.’

  It was unheard of for their centurion to be lost for words. Amazed, Piso watched Tullus’ mouth open and close. And open again.

  ‘I see,’ said Tullus at last. ‘I see.’

  Piso’s fears surged. This was it. His last memories would be of fists and hobnails punching and stamping him into oblivion.

  To his astonishment, Tullus lifted the skin high. ‘If it’s from those cocksuckers, I’d best taste it.’

  Piso’s eyes shot to Metilius as Tullus drank. What does this mean? he tried to say, without words. Metilius’ ‘I don’t know’ shrug was no help at all.

  ‘Not bad. It’s better than the piss you lot drink, that’s for sure,’ said Tullus, smacking his lips.

  ‘Er, yes, sir.’ Terrified, Piso still had no idea what would happen.

  Tullus took another pull. Everyone watched sidelong. Agog, nervous.

  Thwack! The bag hit Piso in the chest. He grabbed it out of instinct.

  ‘Dispose of the bag when it’s empty. A long way from our tent lines.’ Tullus was already several steps away. ‘The first night in the Ox and Plough, you’re buying. All night.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ There could be no denying it, thought Piso, grinning. Their centurion was the finest in the entire bloody army.

  Chapter XXXI

  A FAINT LIGHT in the eastern sky heralded sunrise, but darkness reigned still over the land. The air was cool, refreshing – a world apart from the soaring temperatures. Patches of mist blanketed areas of open ground. Dew glistened on grass hummocks; it dripped from nodding water avens. Trees loomed tall and threatening out of the gloom. Graceful, cautious, deer grazed in twos and threes, their heads lifting at regular intervals to check for danger.