Tullus was at the quartermaster’s office, demanding equipment needed by his unit, when word reached him. One of the quartermaster’s staff, a veteran with fewer teeth in his lower jaw than a newborn lamb, came barging through the door. ‘Jupiter’s cock, have you heard the news?’ He took in Tullus’ presence, and looked discomfited. A hasty salute followed. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t see you there.’
‘No matter.’ Tullus was pleased; the soldier had shown him the respect that he was due, which was more than could currently be said of many others. He indicated the quartermaster and the rest of his staff. ‘We all want to know what’s happened. Speak.’
‘A ship’s just come downriver from Ara Ubiorum, sir. Things have gone to hell there over the last ten days and more. Germanicus was away, placating the legions of Germania Superior, when a senatorial embassy arrived from Rome. By the time Germanicus had returned, the soldiers had panicked. They assumed that the embassy was there to order the deaths of their leaders, so they stormed the principia and seized their legions’ eagles. Germanicus’ wife and baby son were taken captive for a time.’
Stupid fools, thought Tullus, closing his eyes. ‘Were they harmed?’
‘No, sir, thank the gods,’ replied Toothless. ‘The soldiers love Agrippina and Little Boots too much to do them any injury. When they were released, Germanicus sent them away for their own safety to Augusta Treverorum, with auxiliaries as an escort. It seems that the legionaries were shocked to the core that he should entrust his family to the care of non-citizens, loyal though they are. When Germanicus addressed the troops the next day, and harangued them about their duty to Rome, they capitulated at once. The mutiny’s ringleaders were rounded up and handed over to the legions’ legates.’
‘They were executed, I assume?’ asked Tullus, dreading how many would have to die here, in Vetera.
A shadow passed over Toothless’ face. ‘About a hundred, they say, sir. It seems the prisoners were forced up on to platforms in front of their entire legion. A tribune called out to the troops, asking if each man was guilty or not. If the answer was yes, he was pushed off the platform into their midst, to be slain by his comrades.’
The savage scene was easy to picture. Tullus could almost hear the men’s pleas for mercy, and the animal roars of their fellows as they called for blood. ‘Is the same to happen here?’ he demanded. ‘Did the messenger say?’
Hobs clacked off the floor as Toothless shuffled his feet. ‘I don’t know, sir.’
I do, thought Tullus, with a sinking feeling. Germanicus couldn’t – wouldn’t – punish two of the once-mutinous legions while letting the other two off. Ordering the quartermaster to deliver his supplies by the next day or face his wrath, he took his leave. It was time to speak with the cohort’s other officers, and his men.
The news was spreading faster than a fire started in a hay barn. Everywhere Tullus could see, knots of legionaries were talking in lowered voices. Men were moving between barrack blocks, calling out to their comrades. Resentful looks from soldiers had become common of recent times, but it concerned Tullus to note more than a dozen during the short walk to his quarters. He even heard one insult – ‘Cocksucking centurion!’ – but by the time he’d wheeled, the culprit had vanished inside his barracks. Tullus considered storming in to find him, but judged it wasn’t worth the risk. There was no way of knowing if he would succeed in apprehending the right man, and his intervention might aggravate the situation. He didn’t want to be the one who relit the fire of mutiny, which was an outcome that felt all too possible.
Tullus could sense more ill will in the faces that stared at him from the barrack blocks’ tiny windows, and in the insolent way that legionaries moved out of his path, or saluted just a moment too late. Trouble was brewing. Violence was inevitable. Whether the blood that flowed would be that of officers or ordinary soldiers – or both – Tullus had no idea. It was clear, however, that the thorny issue of dealing with those who had mutinied could no longer be avoided.
Somehow ten days dragged by in this uneasy fashion. Each morning, Caecina called together the senior officers under his command, including the centurions and standard-bearers, and ordered them to report. Everyone, including Tullus, had the same thing to say. An odd status quo had developed in the camp, whereby the officers of the Fifth and Twenty-First did not demand much of their men. In return, it seemed, the legionaries’ behaviour did not worsen further. The uncomfortable situation was akin, Tullus decided, to having an unpredictable, large dog living in the house. Things were fine while the dog didn’t feel threatened – but when it did, it was liable to bite. Living with it meant walking around on tiptoes, always looking over one’s shoulder. In his mind, there was but one way to deal with such an animal, and that wasn’t by talking in a sweet voice and patting the brute on the head.
Caecina was prepared to let the uneasy state of affairs continue, however. Without authority from Germanicus, he said, he had no mandate to take action, drastic or no. ‘I have sent messengers asking for guidance,’ he told his officers. ‘Until word comes back from the governor, we will do nothing.’
There were grumbling comments about being murdered in their beds, but Caecina’s word was law, so the centurions kept their heads down and prayed to whatever gods they held dear.
Tullus didn’t pray. He worked on the soldiers of his new century – Septimius’ former one – keeping them busy with training manoeuvres and long marches. When they complained that other men in the cohort weren’t having to do the same, Tullus said that that was because he was turning them into the best soldiers in the whole cursed legion. Using a mixture of flattery, fresh meat and wine, Tullus jollied them along the way an experienced salesman softens up a potential customer. It worked – just – but he knew that his men wouldn’t listen to him forever. All he could do about those in the cohort who’d been prominent in the mutiny was to order Fenestela, Piso, Vitellius and more than a dozen others to keep an eye on them. Keen to keep the soldiers who’d been in the Eighteenth with him, Tullus had managed to have them moved from his former century to his new one.
It was an exhausting, stressful existence. Every few days, Tullus allowed himself an outlet for his tensions, heading into the settlement late at night, after his soldiers had retired. His destination was the Ox and Plough, his favourite watering hole, and where Artio, the girl he’d rescued during Arminius’ ambush, lived. With no possibility of looking after her himself, Tullus had entrusted Artio to the care of the tavern’s owner, Sirona, a feisty Gaulish woman with a heart of gold.
Tullus had no children, and over the previous five years Artio had become as dear to him as a daughter. It was apt that she’d been called after a goddess whose favourite animal was a bear, he often thought, because she was fond of sweet things, in particular honey. She was more spirited than was perhaps wise for a girl, something he was secretly proud of. Her temper was ferocious too – gods help the man who weds her, Sirona was fond of saying.
Under normal circumstances, Tullus visited Artio often when he was off duty, but of course it hadn’t been possible during the uncertain time since his return from the summer camp. A peek into her bedroom, a tiny chamber over the inn, was the best he could manage each time he visited late.
Eleven nights after the arrival of the news from Ara Ubiorum of the mutineers’ executions, he was doing just this. Artio was fast asleep, her long brown hair trailing behind her on the pillow, her dog Scylax dozing on the floor by the bed. Tullus studied her for a time, his heart swelling. Where does time go? he thought, feeling old. She was a tiny little thing when I found her. He glanced at Sirona, who had crept up with him, and whispered, ‘She’s growing fast.’