‘The thing’s going to rust no matter what you do,’ advised Vitellius. ‘Besides, Tullus won’t make us clean them until we get back to Vetera.’
‘If we get back,’ added Saxa in a dour tone.
The boat lurched as a wave slammed into its port side and, guts heaving, Piso forgot about his armour. The choppy motion had him concentrating on one thing – not vomiting – but it was a battle he soon lost. If there was any consolation to be taken from covering his feet and sandals with the contents of his stomach, it was that plenty of others had done so before him, among them Saxa and Metilius. Vitellius held out for a time, but succumbed at last to the acrid stink of bile and the ship’s never-ending pitching and rolling.
‘Ha! You’re no sailor either,’ said Piso.
Vitellius wiped a string of phlegm from his lips and flicked it downward on to the foul liquid that slopped around at their feet, a broth of seawater, vomit, piss and worse. He levelled a baleful stare at Piso. ‘Never said I was.’
‘Will Tullus throw up, d’you think?’
They glanced at the centurion. To their disbelief, he was tucking into a hunk of bread. Between bites, he was conducting a shouted conversation with the captain. By his side, meanwhile, a green-faced Fenestela was staring everywhere but at Tullus’ food.
Piso chuckled. ‘He won’t. Five denarii on it. Any takers?’
His only replies were ribald comments about what he could do with his coins. Piso didn’t mind. With Tullus, the indestructible Tullus, unaffected by the conditions, he had nothing to worry about. Their ship would not sink, Piso knew it, because Tullus was on board. He wasn’t about to shout his defiance at the lowering grey sky, nor even to speak it aloud – Piso wasn’t that stupid – but Tullus’ presence felt like a heavens-sent guarantee that their miserable voyage would end with a successful landfall.
He hoped that the rest of the flotilla – the scores of ships on either side, packed with troops, equipment and horses – fared as well. If they did, gods willing, the treacherous Germans wouldn’t know what had hit them. That was, Piso thought with a tinge of humour, once he and his comrades had stopped feeling sick.
Piso’s convictions were well tested in the two days and nights that followed. Heavy seas and strong winds split up the fleet, driving the better ships ahead and causing the older, less well-constructed vessels no end of problems. If he had been grateful at the outset not to be ordered on to one of the half-derelict troop carriers left over from Drusus’ naval campaigns, Piso was doubly so once he’d seen other craft sinking. He and his comrades grew used, if not immune, to the despairing wails of drowning men that carried over the waves. Their own ship, a new build, sprang a leak at one stage, but constant bailing kept the water levels at a manageable depth. Soaked to the skin, nauseous, and thirstier than he’d ever been after a long summer’s day march, Piso endured with his comrades.
It took four more days for the last of the stragglers to limp in to their destination, and a day after that for a final headcount. When that had been completed, the news that nine ships and more than seven hundred crewmen and soldiers had gone to the bottom travelled between the troops like wildfire. So did the revelation that several big-bellied transports loaded with grain and sour wine had foundered. Scores of horses had also been lost. Matters weren’t helped that day by the drowning of several legionaries as a ship was being unloaded. Their deaths were blamed by most on the new, heavy type of segmented armour they had been wearing. Whatever the reason for their demise, a dark mood fell over the entire camp.
More alert to such things because of the previous year’s mutiny, Tullus bought a fat lamb from a local Chauci farmer and sacrificed it on the muddy beach, giving loud thanks to Neptunus for holding his net close beneath them as they sailed over his watery realm. Other centurions were quick to emulate his move, and when Germanicus ordered a wine ration to be doled out, morale soon lifted. Scores more sheep were purchased from the Chauci tribesmen, who were long-standing, trusted allies of Rome. As the sun set that evening – even the weather had improved – the air was rich with the scent of roasting mutton and filled with the sounds of half-drunk, happy soldiers.
Despite the pounding heads that resulted from the night’s carousing, there were few objections the following morning when the trumpets sounded and the officers hounded the legionaries from their blankets. Germanicus had given the order to march and, hung over or not, the troops were keen to get on with the task in hand. They weren’t here to paddle in the sea and to look for shells along the shore, Tullus roared, but to find the tribes who had slain their comrades, and to wipe them out. His men yelled back their approval.
Piso was in an optimistic mood. With solid ground underfoot, dry clothing and a full belly, it was easy to feel good about the world. Their force was strong, and it was a considerable distance to the borders of the Chauci lands. Although they would march in combat order, there was little chance of an immediate enemy attack. The Chauci were friendly, and many of their warriors served as auxiliaries with the legions. There was no silver-tongued Arminius figure to lead them astray here.
After three days’ march, the safety of the Chauci territory was left behind. The next tribe in the army’s path, the Amisuarii, who lived in and around the southward-leading River Amisia, would cause no trouble, the Romans were told by the auxiliary cavalry. Emissaries were already on their way, with hostages and promises of loyalty to Rome.
‘If our journey was going to be this easy, we should have saved our hobnails and sailed downriver,’ Piso commented late on the fourth day. He raised a hand against Vitellius’ retort. ‘I know, too many of the ships needed repairs.’
‘Would you rather be on land or afloat if we’re attacked?’ asked Saxa, ever the wary one. ‘We’ll be reaching Bructeri territory soon. They laid an ambush on the River Amisia for Drusus, remember.’
‘It’s still nice to dream about not having to march. About not having to carry this.’ Piso indicated his unwieldy yoke with his eyes.
‘Perhaps you should have joined the navy, Piso.’ Tullus had appeared to come, as he did so often, from nowhere. ‘I saw how much you enjoyed being out on the waves during our voyage.’
Piso flushed as his comrades hooted with laughter. ‘I’m happy in the legions, sir. And with my yoke.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’ With a chuckle, Tullus rode off.
‘You could always try the river fleet,’ Vitellius suggested to Piso. He winked at Saxa and Metilius. ‘There’s far less bad weather than on the open ocean. You’d almost never have to go to sea.’
‘Piss off,’ retorted Piso. ‘Why don’t you become a sailor?’
‘I’m a happy footslogger, me,’ said Vitellius, his shrug setting the pots and pans on his yoke to clatter. ‘Always have been.’
‘I’ll remind you of that the next time you’re whingeing about a blister, or a sore neck,’ said Piso with a triumphant look. When it came to complaining, Vitellius was one of the most vocal men in the century. Saxa and Metilius snickered; Vitellius glowered.
Piso grinned. It was at times like this, he decided, that life was at its finest. He was with his closest friends, joking and carrying on like carefree youths. They were marching heavily laden, it was true, and sweating like mules, but the weather was pleasant and not too hot. Their rations were being supplemented daily by plenty of meat – sheep and cattle – bought from the local tribesmen, and, like the good centurion he was, Tullus saw to it that there was wine on offer each night.
Battles were inevitable later in the campaign, but Piso knew they would take place on Germanicus’ terms. When this force met with the two others that had set out from various forts on the Rhenus, they would outnumber any foe who faced them. Vengeance will be ours, thought Piso, remembering with a pang Afer and the rest of his comrades who’d been slain in the Teutoburg Forest. Arminius can try his best, but we will send every last one of his warriors into the mud. Rome will emerge triumphant, he promised himself. Most important of all, the Eighteenth’s eagle would be recovered.