‘Cherish the time when she’s young,’ replied Sirona with a wistful look in her eyes. ‘One moment they’re babes, and the next, they are adults.’
It was hard to believe that Sirona had three full-grown sons, Tullus reflected, admiring her still-comely features and generous curves. He had made several advances to her over the years, each of which she had rebuffed. ‘I’ve been made a widow once,’ she had said every time, her smile taking the sting from her words. ‘I’m not about to be one to the army as well.’
Tullus was distracted at this point by a head butting against his leg, and a tail swooshing the air. Grinning, he reached down to pat Scylax, who had padded out of her room. ‘Good boy.’ When he’d saved Artio during the ambush, he had also rescued a mongrel pup, whom she had named Scylax. Girl and dog had been constant companions ever since.
At that moment, Artio’s eyes opened. She took in Tullus’ shape at her door, and hurled herself from her blankets into his arms. ‘Tullus!’ she squealed.
Tullus gave her a fierce hug, then set her back on her feet and gave her a mock stern look. ‘It’s well past your bedtime.’
‘You shouldn’t stand outside my room gossiping with Sirona then,’ came the tart reply.
‘True enough. We might as well have a talk now that you’re awake,’ said Tullus, ignoring Sirona’s disapproving look. ‘You have to get back into bed, though.’ He perched on a stool, drinking in her chatter of new sandals, the wild birds that Scylax had caught, and what she had got up to with her friends. After the camp’s toxic atmosphere, this was a breath of fresh air. At length, however, Artio began to yawn. Kissing her farewell, and promising to return soon, he gave Scylax a final pat and left them both to sleep.
Placing his feet with care, so that his hobs didn’t clash off the floorboards, Tullus made his way to the head of the precipitous stairs that led back to the inn. The noise of the tavern’s customers, which he’d been aware of in the background, returned to the fore. He was halfway down the staircase when the front door opened and shut with a bang. ‘Tullus! Are you here?’ Despite the clamour, he recognised Fenestela’s voice.
Sudden dread gripped Tullus. Had the troops mutinied again?
He hurried down into the main room, catching Fenestela’s eye with a casual wave of his arm. Plenty of the patrons were ordinary legionaries; whatever the reason for Fenestela’s arrival, there was no point in drawing attention.
Fenestela reached his side in ten paces. ‘It’s good you’re here.’
‘Where else would I be?’ replied Tullus, adding for the sake of those who were nearby, ‘Need some wine?’
‘My thanks.’ Fenestela leaned in close, and muttered, ‘Caecina has called a meeting. Every centurion, every optio, tesserarius and signifer in the two legions is to meet him at the principia.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Now.’
If Fenestela’s face hadn’t been so grim, Tullus would have thought he was joking. He wondered if it had been wise to come out in his tunic, with only a dagger for protection. ‘At this time of night?’
Fenestela placed his lips against Tullus’ ear. ‘A messenger arrived from Germanicus not an hour ago.’
Despite the two cups of wine he’d had, Tullus suddenly felt stone cold sober.
Tullus was well used to wandering the straight, wide avenues of the camp in the dark, using a torch to guide his way. He wasn’t accustomed to creeping along them in the pitch black, trying not to be heard by a soul. However, Caecina’s orders had been unequivocal – his officers were to arrive at the principia without being seen. As he and Fenestela neared their destination, they had several false alarms, and laid hands to their daggers. To their relief, those they encountered were other officers making their way to the meeting. Apart from the sentries at the camp gates – who had assumed Tullus and Fenestela were returning from a night out – the ordinary soldiers appeared to be asleep.
At the principia’s entrance, members of Caecina’s bodyguard demanded their names, ranks and units. A second officer had to vouch for each man before he was admitted. This additional security measure was something that Tullus had never encountered before. ‘Whatever Caecina says is going to be bad,’ he said to Fenestela.
After the blackness outside, the light in the headquarters’ main hall was dazzling. Hundreds of oil lamps – on stands, hanging from chains, placed in the wall niches – lit up the room almost as bright as day. Light glittered off the eagles and standards of the two legions which had been carried from the shrine and placed against the back wall. Caecina had engineered this because the emblems would stir his officers’ emotions, thought Tullus, his heart swelling at the memory of his last visit here, some months before Arminius’ ambush. The standards represented the courage, pride and status of each unit, each cohort, each legion. Men would do almost anything to keep them safe. Losing an arm or a leg, even dying, was preferable to seeing one’s standard taken by the enemy. Gods, but Tullus knew that; he lived with the shame of it every day. Eyeing the Fifth’s eagle, he tried to relish the small amount of pride he took from serving in its legion.
Hundreds of men were already present, and more were entering with each moment. Each legion contained sixty centuries, every one of which had a centurion, optio, tesserarius and signifer. When the musicians were also taken into account – Tullus saw them gathering too – there would be more than five hundred soldiers present. He spied Cordus and Victor, and their cronies, most of whom acknowledged him. Victor didn’t, of course.
Caecina emerged from the shrine with his legates and tribunes, and as they moved to stand by the eagles, silence fell. Despite the hour, the governor and his companions wore the full regalia of their office. Winks and flashes of light bounced off Caecina’s armour, which had been burnished to a mirror-like sheen. He looked magnificent, from head to toe the important man he was, and radiating the authority to issue the harshest of orders.
‘Is everyone here?’ Caecina’s voice carried across the hall to the entrance, where a dozen of his bodyguards stood. Receiving a nod, he ordered the doors shut. His eyes raked the gathering. ‘In these sad and uncertain times, you are the only soldiers I can trust in all of the Fifth and Twenty-First. I have called you together to advise you of Germanicus’ letter, which arrived not long since. He will be travelling here soon with a strong escort.’ Men began to exchange relieved looks, but Caecina’s expression grew sombre. ‘There’s more. Before his arrival, Germanicus expects me to have executed anyone disloyal, else he will do it himself.’
‘I knew it,’ said Tullus to Fenestela. Part of him was relieved. Getting the brutal deed out of the way would restore order, and allow life to continue. Part of him felt like the worst sort of criminal, however, left with no alternative but to murder a comrade.
‘Two grim choices lie before me – and you,’ Caecina announced. ‘We can complete the task, or wait until Germanicus comes to do it for us. I don’t have to tell you which is the better option. We deal with this tomorrow. By “deal with”, I mean, we kill the foremost mutineers.’
His words sank in for three, six, ten uneasy heartbeats.
Tullus cleared his throat. ‘Who is to die, sir?’
Men stepped aside, both to see who he was, and to allow Caecina a view of him. It felt uncomfortable, and Tullus thought: we’re all in this together, you dogs.
‘A pertinent question, Tullus,’ said Caecina. ‘The simple answer is that each of you, from senior centurion down to musician, has to decide on the guiltiest soldiers in your unit. Talk about it now, come to an agreement and compile a list. Some centuries will have more disloyal men than others – that cannot be helped. What’s vital is that we cut every dead branch from the tree with one pass of our blades.’
Our blades? thought Tullus, bitterness pouring through him. You won’t be bloodying your noble hands, oh no – that’s for us poor fools.