All had gone well there, and the pair had spent the morning watching a set of wrestling matches organised by the bored legionaries. A large crowd had gathered to watch the contests, and food- and wine-sellers had come in from outside the camp. It had been perfect ground for wandering about and eavesdropping on conversations.
For the most part, Tullus brooded, what they’d heard was bad. It seemed that Gaius’ information had been accurate. Almost every soldier in the four legions – the First, the Fifth, the Twentieth and the Twenty-First – had rebelled. Perhaps fifty legionaries appeared to be in charge; their number included Bony Face, Fat Nose and the twins. More than a score of centurions had been murdered. More senior officers were being held captive in their tents, with the obvious exception of the tribune who had been slain.
There was talk of violence beyond the camp’s walls. Some civilians had been killed, and women raped. There were even rumours of attacking the nearest town, Ara Ubiorum. About the only cheering news was the fact that, as far as Piso and Vitellius could tell, none of Caecina’s messengers had been apprehended.
That meant, thought Tullus, that Germanicus would know by now what had happened. He would arrive soon. What would happen then was anyone’s guess – the mutineers weren’t going to lie down and present their throats like submissive dogs. Too much blood had been shed for that.
How many more lives would be lost?
Tullus continued to send out his men each day, with Caecina’s blessing. On the fifth day, Piso returned earlier than normal, bearing the news that Germanicus had been seen nearing the camp. A delighted Tullus took him straight to Caecina, who was incarcerated in his office with the primi pili, the most senior centurions of the four legions.
Caecina’s delight at Piso’s news didn’t last. ‘Imagine if the mutineers fall upon him,’ he declared. ‘The governor must not enter the camp until it is safe! Word must be sent to him at once.’
‘I’ll go, sir,’ offered Tullus. ‘I can pass myself off as a veteran.’
Caecina studied Tullus for a moment. ‘The mutineers have a point about men serving for too long, eh?’ His frankness made the primi pili give each other surprised looks, but Tullus nodded.
It wasn’t unusual for a centurion to be almost fifty years old, but ordinary legionaries, who joined the army at eighteen or nineteen, were eligible for discharge at forty-three or -four. Poor record-keeping and insufficient numbers of recruits meant that this deadline was often ‘overlooked’ by the more unscrupulous centurions. No wonder men had grievances, thought Tullus, and shame on Caecina for not doing something about it before. ‘With your permission, sir, I will take my optio and twenty men.’
‘Do as you see fit. Just make sure that you reach the governor outside the camp. He will have an escort, but because he’ll be riding like a demon, it’s bound to be small. Things could easily go wrong, and I don’t want to be held accountable for the death of the emperor’s heir as well as the cursed mutiny.’
Tullus winced inwardly. If Germanicus was slain, and he was also blamed, the death penalty would beckon. His dead soldiers would never be avenged, and he would lose any chance of recovering the Eighteenth’s eagle. He threw back his shoulders. ‘I’ll see the governor into your presence, sir. I swear it, on my life.’
Wandering the camp out of uniform, pretending that he was an ordinary legionary, was a bizarre experience for Tullus. His secret visit to Rome with Fenestela had been one of the only times that he had acted in such a way. That had taken some getting used to, but it had not been as risk-laden. Here, among so many soldiers, Tullus expected to be recognised as an officer at every turn. To this end, he had pulled the hood of his cloak up, and walked along with his head down, letting Piso and the others guide his path. They all wore swords under their cloaks, but none were in armour. So few of the mutinous soldiers were in full kit that to do so would have drawn immediate attention to themselves.
Tullus was able to gain an impression of the situation as they made their way towards the camp’s northernmost gate, the entrance at which Germanicus would arrive. At first glance, things appeared normal enough. The legionaries’ tents were still in position. So too were some of the unit standards. Yet there were gaps in the tent lines that shouldn’t have been present; Tullus saw that most of the centurions’ large tents had been torn down. A closer look revealed that they had been slashed to pieces, or burned. Near more than one tent, tell-tale bloodstains bore witness to darker deeds. Rubbish lay underfoot everywhere – discarded amphorae of wine, broken plates, rinds of cheese, and a sandal with a broken strap. There were items that had to have been pilfered from officers’ quarters and then discarded: an iron-bound chest lying on its side, a half-unrolled fine carpet, a massive cast-iron stand with hooks for two dozen oil lamps. The stink of urine, and worse, was proof that reaching the latrines had not been a priority for many.
If the camp looked vaguely normal from a distance, its inhabitants did not. The mutinous legionaries lounged about before their tents, or roamed the avenues in large, unruly groups. A significant number were drunk. Crowds of them were heading in the same direction as Tullus and his men, and from their conversations, it seemed that they too wanted to see Germanicus, and lay before him their demands.
No one gave Tullus’ party a second glance, and they soon reached the northern gate, where a queue had formed to exit the camp. Word was spreading that everyone was to assemble on the parade ground as soon as possible, so that Germanicus would appreciate their overwhelming numbers. Tullus had Piso scale the ladder that led up to one of the entrance’s watch-towers. He was back within the space of thirty heartbeats. ‘A party of riders is approaching, sir. They’re perhaps a mile away.’
‘That’s got to be Germanicus,’ said Tullus, his heart beating faster. Instinct told him that the governor might tackle the problem head on, and Tullus wondered if he could reach him before the parade ground. Whether Germanicus, renowned for his determination, would heed Tullus’ advice was another thing altogether. Furthermore, to do so would reveal themselves to the mutineers.
‘We’ll head to the speaking platform,’ he said to Piso and the rest. ‘Fast as we can. Avoid meeting anyone’s eye.’
Men with purpose always moved quicker than those without, and the effect was exaggerated when wine had been consumed. Tullus’ party slipped between and around the rowdy mutineers, breaking into smaller groups when needed, coming at last to the low platform from which officers addressed troops on parade. The only people to protest their passage were a number of aggressive, pissed soldiers, who were easy to bypass. Tullus kept his men away from the front, because Bony Face was close to the dais with Fat Nose and the twins. The legionaries around them were sober, and seemed to be spoiling for trouble.
Time dragged as they waited for Germanicus to arrive. Tullus kept his head down, and spoke little, but he kept his ears pricked. It was heartening to hear that the mutineers’ strong feelings about their grievances were mitigated by a clear devotion to Germanicus, and notable that, despite their mutiny, the ringleaders hadn’t positioned themselves on the platform.