Some days later, Piso was helping to dig the defensive trench for the night’s camp. For half the men of a campaigning army, this least-loved of tasks came at the end of every second day’s march. His turn was this afternoon, and despite the long job that lay before him and his already aching muscles, Piso was still in good spirits. Around him, his comrades were too. Saxa was halfway through a popular ditty about a brothel, and was bawling the filthiest chorus line in time with each strike of his pickaxe.
The whole contubernium was taking part – Vitellius and others throwing in additional, imaginative lines whenever possible. Infected by their enthusiasm and volume, the men nearby had begun to join in too. Tullus, who was strolling along the top of the ditch, supervising, had a tiny smile on his face. Piso even thought he’d heard Fenestela whistling the song’s tune.
The campaign had begun well, Piso decided. Their arrival from the north had caught the Bructeri napping, and their force was now deep in the tribe’s territory. Settlements and farms had been abandoned wholescale, their panicked inhabitants fleeing into the surrounding forests. Resistance had been sporadic and, for the most part, ineffectual. There’d been one serious attack, the previous day, but it had been thrown back with massive casualties among the Bructeri tribesmen. Piso hadn’t even seen the fighting, because the assault had struck a different part of the marching column.
More promising news – swift to spread between the soldiers – had been brought by the Chauci scouts returning from the south. The two other parts of Germanicus’ army, one under the command of the general Caecina and the second under the legate Stertinius, had already combined and were less than twenty miles away. Together they had also laid waste to large numbers of Bructeri villages, and slain many hundreds of warriors.
If things continued like this, thought Piso, there was a chance that they’d be back in Vetera before the harvest. He dampened his enthusiasm before it took root. Germanicus would not lead his vast army back to its camps early. Teaching the tribes who’d risen against Rome their lesson would take time, even if the legions won every battle. We’ll be here until the autumn, Piso told himself. Get used to it.
Saxa had reached the last verse of his song, in which the hero – a legionary, naturally – is forced to choose between his comrades, who are leaving on campaign, and a big-breasted, willing whore. Conscious that every soldier within fifty paces was hanging off his words, he’d stopped digging – a risky move, with Tullus still about. Yet Saxa had made a calculated judgement. Piso spied their centurion close by, hands on hips. A broad and unusual grin was splitting his face – clear permission for Saxa to finish.
Cheering broke out as Saxa bellowed the final line, telling the legionaries what they’d heard a thousand times: that a good fuck is unforgettable, but doesn’t last. A man’s comrades, on the other hand, will stay with him to the end – even unto death.
‘I hope he nailed her good and proper before walking out the door,’ shouted Vitellius.
It was an old joke, but roars of laughter rose nonetheless.
‘A fine rendition, Saxa,’ said Tullus. ‘Time to get back to work. The same applies to the rest of you maggots!’ The meaningful tap of his vitis on his right greave was lost on no one, and every soldier bent his back at once. Tullus’ beady gaze wandered up and down the ditch before he resumed his pacing.
Piso and his comrades continued to talk amongst themselves, in quiet tones. Tullus permitted that, as long as their work rate was satisfactory. Veterans all, they didn’t need much encouragement. Once the camp was built, their tents could be erected and they could shed themselves of the dead weight of their armour and weapons.
The trench was complete and the rampart half-finished when Tullus gave the order to fetch the palisade stakes that would decorate the top of the completed defences. Each soldier had to carry two of the arm-length pieces of timber on the march. Buried daily in the earthen parapet and tied together with rope, they formed an extra deterrent against potential attackers. Moving the stakes was a great deal easier than tamping down the top of the fortifications, and so there was often a race between tent mates to lay down their pickaxes and make for the heaped timbers. On this occasion, Piso and Vitellius got there first. Tullus was watching so Saxa, Metilius and the rest retreated to the earthworks, throwing sour looks at the lucky pair.
Piso had scooped up a bundle of a dozen stakes and was halfway down the ditch when riotous cheering broke out among the legionaries forming the defensive screen, some 250 paces away. These were the men who had built the camp the day before, and whose turn it was now to protect Piso and the other workers. He cast a glance at Tullus – it was always best to make sure he wouldn’t be reprimanded for slacking – and, happy that his centurion was also trying to decide what was going on, clambered back out of the ditch. Everyone was staring now – two messengers seemed to have arrived – and already the rumours were starting.
‘There’s been a sign from the gods – victory will be ours this summer,’ someone said. ‘Arminius is dead – slain by his own kind.’ ‘The Angrivarii have come over to us – or the Chasuari. Maybe both.’
Piso couldn’t help but chuckle. The stories were growing more outlandish by the moment. If the truth didn’t emerge soon, men would have Tiberius arriving in their midst, brought by Mercury himself. He sniffed. Gods did not carry anyone, even the rulers of empires. Emperors did not visit their far-flung provinces, still less risk their imperial lives in barbarian lands. The cheering was because of something more banal, like the discovery in a settlement of hundreds of barrels of German beer.
Then Piso heard the word ‘eagle’ being shouted. His heart almost stopped, and his eyes shot to Tullus. The loss of the Eighteenth’s revered standard had hit him harder than anyone Piso knew. All the colour had drained from Tullus’ face; Piso looked back – the messengers, two men on sweat-soaked horses, had cleared the legionaries’ screen and were galloping towards them, and the camp entrance, which lay close by.
Piso’s mouth fell open as Tullus strode right into the riders’ path. The pair had to rein in hard to avoid trampling him. ‘Out of the way!’ shouted the lead horseman. ‘We carry important news for the imperial governor himself.’
It was as if Tullus was deaf. He took hold of the first horse’s reins, ignoring the rider’s outrage. ‘What news?’
The messengers shared a look; then the lead one shrugged and said, ‘An eagle has been found, sir, among the Bructeri.’
Despite the warm sun on his back, Piso shivered. He was conscious that around him men were muttering and praying. One soldier – Vitellius? – had even fallen to his knees.
‘Which legion is it from?’ demanded Tullus, his tone more commanding than Piso had ever heard it.
‘The Nineteenth, sir.’
Tullus’ hand fell away from the reins, and he stepped back. ‘Wonderful news,’ he said in a quiet voice.
The first messenger’s sour expression eased a little. ‘You were in the Seventeenth or Eighteenth, sir?’
Tullus’ head came up again. Even at a distance, the pride in his eyes was clear. ‘The Eighteenth.’
‘A fine legion, sir,’ said the messenger. ‘May your eagle be found next.’
‘It’s only a matter of time.’ Tullus’ tone was confident. Stepping back to allow the riders past, he wheeled towards his watching men. ‘D’you hear that, brothers? One eagle has flown home – and the other two will soon follow! Roma Victrix!’