Confusion registered on the faces of the legionaries outside the barracks. Confusion, and then fear.
‘Spread out to fill the gap. Draw swords, shields at the ready!’ shouted Tullus. He heard Fenestela leading his half of the century around the adjacent building, saw Septimius’ old signifer appear in the doorway of his quarters. He came trotting over, and then the tesserarius appeared at the far end of the barracks, clearly waiting for Fenestela.
All conversation ceased in the ‘corridor’. Dice and bone playing pieces lay untouched. Men stopped wrestling, laid down the greasy rags with which they’d been polishing their kit. ‘What’s going on?’ cried a soldier, backing away from Tullus.
Tullus ignored him, and gave the signifer a terse nod. They had spoken the previous night, and at dawn. ‘Nine names on your list, eh?’
‘That’s right, sir.’ The signifer’s face was pale, but set. ‘Four of them aren’t here.’
Tullus knew who they were. He wanted to scream. ‘And the other five?’
‘Three are behind me, sir. The brawny one, and the red-haired man he’s been grappling with, and the soldier who’s leaning against the barracks, swigging from a jug. The others are in their rooms, down the other end of the building. They’re in bed, I think.’
‘Fenestela can take care of those two. We’ll tackle the three out here. You deal with the fool who’s drinking.’ Tullus turned his head. ‘Eight men, follow me. Eight, go with the signifer. The rest of you, make sure no one leaves. No one. Follow!’
Tullus made a beeline for the big legionary and his redheaded companion. Piso, Vitellius and six others dogged his heels. Soldiers melted away before them, their questions and demands dying on their lips. They were twenty steps away when their quarry realised what was happening. The pair, who were unarmed, made a run for the door to their quarters – where their weapons lay.
Tullus had chased down fleeing men countless times before, on battlefields when the enemy had broken. It was an easy way to kill, and the red-haired legionary fell before he’d reached the door; in the same time, Piso and Vitellius had slain the brawny one. Standing over the bodies of their victims, the three gave each other bleak looks. Tullus struggled for something to say, then gave up. Nothing could make this better.
The signifer had done his job too. A scarlet trail was smeared down the barrack wall, the bloody track left by his chosen legionary as he slid to the ground. Soon after, Fenestela emerged from the barracks, his blade stained. He gave Tullus a grim nod.
‘The other four are the bony-faced prick, the one with a fat nose and the twins, I take it?’ Tullus demanded of the optio.
‘Yes, sir. They’re as thick as thieves.’
‘Where are they?’
‘The gods only know, sir,’ said the signifer with an apologetic look. ‘They’ve been spending time with some of the troublemakers in the Eighth Cohort, I know, but they could be anywhere in the camp.’
‘What in Hades’ name have you done?’ ‘Who gave the orders for this?’ As the remainder of the legionaries realised that they weren’t to be attacked, the questions and accusations came raining down. ‘Murderers!’
Tullus wheeled with blazing eyes, and the soldiers quietened. ‘These men were central to the recent mutiny. They were traitors,’ he cried, stabbing his blade towards each of the corpses. ‘You know it. I know it. Caecina knows it, and so does Germanicus. Understand that with their deaths, the unrest ends. Remain loyal, and there will be no further retribution.’ He prayed that the last part was true.
Some of the legionaries met his eye, but most would not. Their dampened mood and slumped shoulders told Tullus that these ones at least would pose no further problem. ‘Into your quarters,’ he ordered. ‘Stay put until things quieten down. Fenestela, gather the men.’ To the signifer, he said grimly, ‘We’d best start our search.’
Nothing could have prepared Tullus for the carnage that met them in the rest of the camp. It was clear at once that not every mission to hunt down the leading mutineers had gone according to plan. Tullus was used to battlefields, habituated to bodies and bloodshed. Terrible as the screams of wounded men were, he was accustomed to blocking them out. Never before, however, had he seen and heard these things inside the walls of a camp.
Corpses lay everywhere: on the avenues, in between the barrack buildings, across thresholds. Blood spatters marked the spots where men had died, or been wounded. Crimson smears and scuff marks traced the path taken by the injured as they tried to get away from their assailants, or dragged themselves into a quiet spot to die. The wounded calling for help competed with those men who were crying for their friends, or their mothers.
Freed somehow from their stable, a trio of riderless horses cantered past, their hooves clattering off the paving stones. Soldiers ran hither and thither, in ones and twos, and in larger groups. They were unarmed, part-dressed in armour and fully equipped for battle. Some were being pursued; others appeared to be fleeing in blind panic. Yet more were being directed by officers – but to what purpose, it was hard to tell.
No one seemed to know what was going on.
The unmistakeable smell of burning wood reached Tullus’ nostrils. Searching for its source, he saw threads of smoke rising from the area of the principia. Had some fool actually set fire to the headquarters? he wondered. He warred with himself for a moment, before deciding to stick to his plan. There were enough soldiers on hand to bring the conflagration under control, but if Bony Face and the rest weren’t tracked down, they might escape.
How they would find the four legionaries in the mayhem, Tullus wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t forget the glee with which Bony Face had executed Septimius. The whoreson needed to pay for his actions, and if Tullus could be the one who dispensed justice, so much the better.
They didn’t find their quarry at the Eighth Cohort’s barracks, where the situation was also under control. Numerous bodies lay outside the buildings, and there were plenty of wounded too. A weary-looking centurion told Tullus how the mutineers had armed themselves and fought back. A small group had broken through his men’s lines. ‘My boys had slain most of those on the list. They weren’t up to chasing the rest,’ he said, unable to hold Tullus’ eyes.
With little chance of finding Bony Face, who could have been anywhere in the vast camp, Tullus decided to head for the principia, to help extinguish the fire. An abrupt change to his plans was forced upon him as he entered the via praetoria. He glanced towards the main gate, some hundred paces away. There a desperate fight was taking place: men strived against each other, weapons rang, shrieks of pain and war cries combined in a familiar cadence.
The sentries were trying to prevent a mob of soldiers from leaving the camp, Tullus decided – and losing. ‘To the gate!’ he roared. ‘They’re killing our brothers at the gate!’
By the time they made it to the entrance, only two of the sentries were left. They went down just as Tullus and his men struck their attackers from behind. Some of the mutinous legionaries heard them coming and turned, but the rest were concentrating on getting out of the camp. Tullus’ legionaries hit them with a great crash, thumping their shield bosses into men’s backs, using their swords with short, efficient thrusts, trampling the fallen. Enraged by the innocent sentries’ fate, they needed no encouragement to kill.
Tullus’ temper was up too. He met the shield thrust at him by a swarthy-faced legionary with a savage thwack from the iron boss of his own. The shock of the impact rippled through wood and metal into his arm, and Tullus struggled to keep the shield high, but his opponent, surprised by the move, had fared worse. His top shield rim had bashed backwards into his face, smashing a couple of teeth. He was still moaning and dribbling blood through split lips when Tullus’ blade sank deep into his throat.