‘You were at the Saltus Teutoburgiensis, I heard,’ said the staff officer, as if he’d been reading Tullus’ mind. There was respect in his voice, unlike most of those who’d commented in the years since. ‘You got some of your soldiers out.’
Old bitterness washed over Tullus. ‘Not enough of them.’
‘You did more than anyone I’ve heard of. Even Tubero only saved eight or nine men.’
Tullus held back a furious rebuttal – it had been an optio of the Seventeenth who’d rescued Tubero and the soldiers – with a savage bite to the inside of his cheek. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, so he grunted rather than speak a reply.
The staff officer hadn’t noticed. ‘Was it as bad as they say?’
‘Ten times worse,’ grated Tullus.
‘It will be an honour to visit the place,’ said the staff officer, adding, ‘I don’t hold with those who say it’ll bring bad luck upon us. Even if it’s years late, our dead deserve to be buried.’
This unexpected revelation had Tullus still struggling for a reply when they came to a halt before a final partition. A pair of impassive-faced bodyguards stood before it. Both looked as solid as granite.
‘Senior Centurion Tullus, Seventh Cohort of the Fifth, to see the governor,’ announced the staff officer.
The bodyguards’ eyes roamed up and down Tullus. One of them made a non-committal noise that could have meant anything from ‘Yes, sir’ to ‘I don’t give a shit’ before he vanished within. Tullus was used to this reaction from very senior officers’ guards, but he had never liked it. When the second man focused on him again, Tullus returned the stare with a flinty one of his own. Old I might be, compared to you, but I’d still give you a run for your money, you big pile of shit, he thought.
‘The governor will see you now.’ The first bodyguard had returned. He held aside the curtain.
The staff officer indicated Tullus should enter.
Tullus felt as nervous as he had when Germanicus had recognised him at Tiberius’ triumph. Eyes fixed ahead, he stamped in the way he did on the parade ground: lifting his legs with his shoulders back and chest out. He came to attention before Germanicus, who was sitting behind a rosewood desk with a silver-inlaid top. Documents were piled in front of him; an inkwell and a simple iron stylus sat by his right hand. He looked older, and more tired, than Tullus had ever seen him, but the air of command was still there in his eyes and the firm set of his chin.
‘Senior Centurion Tullus.’ His tone was warm.
‘Sir!’
‘No one is to disturb us,’ Germanicus said to the bodyguard. ‘At ease, Tullus. Have a seat.’
‘My mail, on the wood, sir,’ protested Tullus. The steel rings scratched anything they touched.
‘Sit,’ ordered Germanicus. ‘The chair is unimportant.’
The ebony chair looked as if it had cost a small fortune, but Tullus wasn’t about to argue with one of the most powerful men in the empire. Gripping his scabbard so it didn’t get caught behind him, he sat. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Germanicus waved at the jug on the dresser to his right. ‘Wine?’
Tullus would have declined – even though he’d met Germanicus a number of times, he wanted his wits about him – but the staff officer’s words had set his stomach to roiling. ‘I will, sir. Thank you.’ His discomfort was added to as Germanicus rose and picked up the jug. ‘Allow me, sir,’ Tullus said, half standing.
Germanicus laughed. ‘Sit. I’m well able to pour wine.’
Discomfited, Tullus watched as Germanicus filled two elegant blue glasses, handing one to Tullus and keeping one for himself.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tullus, admiring the outer surface of his glass, which was decorated with sparring gladiators.
‘A nice piece, eh?’
‘The likenesses are excellent, sir.’
‘So they should be, the price they cost each.’ Germanicus’ eyebrows rose as Tullus’ hold on his glass became even more delicate. ‘Drink, centurion, and don’t worry about the glass.’
Reassured, Tullus tried a sip. The wine was perhaps the finest he’d ever had – deep-flavoured, dry and earthy, with echoes of roses and truffles.
‘Do you like it?’ Germanicus’ face was amused.
‘Is it that obvious, sir?’
‘You look like a man dying of thirst.’
‘I have never tasted better, sir.’ Tullus set the vessel down.
‘Drink, man, drink! You’ve earned it.’ Germanicus took a swallow from his own glass.
Tullus relished his second mouthful even more than the first. ‘Delicious, sir.’
Germanicus seemed satisfied. ‘You’ve seen the Nineteenth’s eagle?’
‘I paid my respects at the shrine in the headquarters, sir.’ Wanting privacy, Tullus had lingered long after the initial rush of senior officers. Scratched, its original staff broken, and missing several lightning bolts, the eagle had still exuded a palpable majesty. Once alone, it hadn’t taken long for his grief to bubble to the surface. On his knees, Tullus had wept. He had cried for the dead soldiers of his century. For those of his cohort, and the entire Eighteenth. For the rest of Varus’ army. For his legion’s lost eagle. For Artio’s mother and even for poor, misguided Varus. For the shame of it all. He had even wept for himself – that he had survived when so many had not. That he had failed his men during the ambush by not saving more of them. Maybe I should have died there, Tullus thought, not for the first time.
‘It must have grieved you to see it.’ Germanicus’ voice was soft.
‘I was glad and sorry at the same time, sir, if you know what I mean.’
‘You must wish it had been the Eighteenth’s eagle that was recovered.’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Tullus with a sigh.
Germanicus thumped the desk with a fist. ‘Your eagle will be found. This is just the start.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’
A silence fell, during which Tullus’ mind spun in ever faster circles, trying to guess the reason for Germanicus’ summons. Tullus couldn’t take the suspense for long. ‘I’m thinking that you didn’t order me here for my opinion of your wine, sir.’
Germanicus guffawed. Unsure what was going on, Tullus didn’t join in.
‘If only more of my officers were cut from your cloth, Tullus. They fawn and creep before me, when all I want them to do is speak their minds.’
‘I see, sir,’ said Tullus, as non-committally as he could. Who can blame them? he reflected. Despite Germanicus’ words, it paid to be careful what one said to members of the royal family. Utter the wrong opinion and a man’s career – even his life – could be ended just like that.
‘You are right, of course,’ said Germanicus. ‘I asked you here for a favour.’
How the rich and powerful like to make it seem as if we have a choice, thought Tullus. Despite Germanicus’ overtures of friendship, he was under no illusions about their relationship. He was the servant, and Germanicus the master. And yet with the staff officer’s words fresh in his mind, he wondered if Germanicus’ request might not be altogether bad. ‘The empire means everything to me, sir. If I can help, I will.’
‘I hoped you’d say that.’ Germanicus’ expression grew sombre. ‘I wish to visit the site of Arminius’ ambush.’
‘Tubero was also there, sir,’ said Tullus in confusion. ‘He is a more senior officer.’
‘He is young. Very young.’
‘But-’
‘I have no proof, but I’m not altogether sure I believe Tubero’s account of what happened.’ Here Germanicus pointed a warning finger. ‘That’s to stay between you and me, d’you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Tullus, exulting and despairing at the same time. At last someone else knew, or suspected, Tubero to be the liar he was. Whether Germanicus wasn’t prepared to challenge Tubero’s story for lack of proof or because it served the empire to have a high-ranking hero, Tullus wasn’t sure. More likely the latter, he thought with bitterness. Tubero was a senior officer who couldn’t be blamed for what happened, and who had come through the affair thanks to his virtus, his courage and moral fibre.