‘Look on my helping you with this as recompense for your services as a guide then,’ said Tullus with a smile. ‘As for your obligation to save me in battle, well, you will have to set that aside when we part company. I will not have it any other way.’
‘If you are caught, if someone like Tubero found out …’ Degmar began.
‘We had best ensure that no one realises what we’re up to, eh?’ Despite his tone, Tullus was far from confident. To locate Degmar’s family while the legions massed nearby, to keep them from telling their friends or neighbours, and then spirit them to safety without being spotted by either side, verged on the impossible, and the insane. He was still going to try, though.
For Degmar.
Chapter XV
Piso was at the bar of the Ox and Plough, which had become his second home since the recent bloodbath in which the mutineers had been killed. The place was jammed with legionaries and officers, and a smattering of civilians. All the tables were occupied, and the standing customers were pressed together like the unfortunates in the bowels of a slave ship. A trio of musicians in one corner made valiant but vain attempts to be heard over the drunken singing and shouted conversations. The innkeeper Sirona patrolled the length of the bar, smiling, serving wine and food, and keeping an eye on her patrons.
‘More wine,’ said Piso, banging his cup on the counter. ‘MORE WINE!’
Vitellius gave him a sour look. He was being more abstemious than Piso, as usual. It was no surprise, therefore, when he grabbed Piso’s arm before it struck the wooden top again. ‘Haven’t you had enough?’
‘No,’ snapped Piso. ‘I fucking haven’t.’
Vitellius glanced at Sirona, who was approaching with a sour face and a fresh jug. ‘Water it down, will you?’
‘I have,’ came the tart reply. ‘Five to one.’
‘Excellent,’ said Vitellius, slapping down coins worth twice the wine’s normal price. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Five to one?’ slurred Piso. This was degrees more dilution than legionaries – than he – liked. Sirona’s expression had turned thunderous, however. Drunk or not, Piso realised that further objection would result in the wine being poured over his head. He swallowed his pride and said no more.
Sirona placed the jug in front of Vitellius – not Piso – and swept the coins into her hand. ‘This is your last drink. You’re both pissed. You’ – here she gave Piso an unfriendly look – ‘in particular.’
Stung, Piso began to protest, but a sharp jab of Vitellius’ elbow made him turn on his friend instead. ‘What was that for?’
Vitellius ignored him. ‘As you say, Sirona – we’ll go after this. Won’t we, Piso?’
‘Aye, I suppose,’ Piso muttered darkly.
Pursing her lips, Sirona stalked off.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ demanded Vitellius. ‘Do you want to end up barred?’
‘She wouldn’t dare,’ said Piso with a sneer.
‘Why ever not? She has more than enough customers, and her sons are fucking enormous. If she tells them you’re not welcome, you won’t get in again.’ Vitellius indicated the two strapping men by the door, both of whom had clubs. When Piso made a phhhh of contempt, he added, ‘She’s friendly with Tullus too, you fool. This is Artio’s home, remember? One word from Sirona to Tullus, and you’ll find yourself with punishment duty as well as being barred from here.’
‘All right,’ grumbled Piso. Wine slopped on to the bartop as he filled their cups with an unsteady hand. He toasted Vitellius and downed the lot in one gulp. The warm feeling as it hit his stomach was pleasant, but it couldn’t erase Piso’s graphic memories of how close he’d come to stabbing the fleeing centurion, still less how he had helped Tullus to kill some of the mutineers. The frank terror in their faces, the disbelief that their comrades could turn on them, was as fresh in his mind, and as jarringly painful, as if it had just happened. He hung his head, stared down at the sawdust-covered floor and wondered about vomiting.
After a moment, his stomach settled. ‘I thought nothing could be worse than the fucking forest.’
Vitellius looked more sympathetic. ‘I felt the same way, but those men had to die. Left alone, they would have been a weeping sore in the legion’s side – always painful, always causing trouble. I know that. You know that. Everyone knows it.’
‘But to make us the executioners?’
‘That was pure genius on Germanicus’ part, don’t you see? If he’d sent in auxiliaries, every legionary on the frontier would distrust allied troops for the rest of his life, and rightly so. Making us complicit means that we have to forget the whole sick affair. Moving on, leaving it in the past, is our only option.’
Vitellius’ explanation made sense, thought Piso, but it didn’t diminish his shame, which he often saw mirrored in Vitellius’ eyes, as well as those of their comrades. He refilled their cups again, emptying the jug. ‘How long will that take, eh? To forget it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Vitellius’ voice was weary. ‘But it will happen. Think of it as you would a broken heart. In the end, it heals. Time is all that’s needed.’
Piso had never had a broken heart, but he didn’t want to admit that, so he grunted in agreement and finished the dregs of his wine. He planted his cup on the counter with a thump. ‘If we’re no longer going to get served, let’s find somewhere else. I don’t want to go back to barracks.’
Vitellius sighed. ‘You can’t go on drowning your sorrows like this. It’s only a matter of time before Tullus or Fenestela catches you.’
‘I can’t sleep if I don’t drink.’ Piso heard his whining tone, and hated himself for it.
‘You’ll have to find another way then,’ replied Vitellius with a scowl. ‘I don’t want to go to Hades because you were too hung over to protect me.’
The accusation stung. In battle, every legionary was supposed to defend the man to his left. Piso guarded Vitellius, just as another of their tent mates did for him, and so on. ‘That would never happen!’
‘A cripple with a crutch would have bested you for the last few mornings,’ replied Vitellius with a knowing look.
Piso’s cheeks reddened. Vitellius was right. If they’d been forced to fight in recent days, he would have struggled to keep himself alive beyond the first clash with the enemy, never mind protect Vitellius. Pride smarting now, he cried, ‘Gods above, leave me alone!’
‘Why should I?’ Vitellius’ eyes were understanding but hard. ‘You’re my friend. My comrade. It’s my job to look after you, wherever we are. Which means you should climb on the wagon for a while.’
Piso absorbed this with the ponderousness of the blind drunk. At length, he nodded. Being responsible for the death of a friend like Vitellius would be worse, far worse than his current troubles. And so the nightmares that plagued him every night would have to be faced in the company of someone other than Bacchus, who, if truth be told, had not done a good job of preventing them anyway. ‘Very well. I’ll do it.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Vitellius threw a brotherly arm around his shoulders. ‘Let’s head home, eh?’
Watched by a sour-faced Sirona, they weaved their way between the packed tables to the door. They were half a dozen steps away when it burst open, framing a legionary on the threshold. Spying his comrades – a party of soldiers in the middle of the room – he roared, ‘We’re heading over the Rhenus, brothers!’
Conversations ground to a halt. Men stared. A little abashed, the legionary repeated his words. An expectant silence fell. Inspired by the opportunity hitherto denied them, the musicians struck up a merry tune, but they were soon cowed by a barrage of abuse.
‘Tell us all!’ Piso demanded of the new arrival. ‘What news do you bring?’
‘The clement weather is too good an opportunity to miss, Germanicus says. We are to attack the enemy at once.’ Surprised reactions erupted throughout the room – it was unheard of to wage war after the harvest. ‘Most units from the four …’ Here the soldier hesitated, unwilling to say the word ‘rebellious’, eventually opting for: ‘… local legions are to take part, as well as a similar number of auxiliaries. We march out when the troops from Ara Ubiorum get here, in three to four days.’