Tullus picked up one of the discs and cleaned the dirt from its face. It was plain, and disappointment flooded through him. The same applied to the next disc, and the next, but his luck changed with the fourth. Using a fingernail to scrape away dirt from the concave surface, Tullus’ eyes devoured the raised lettering that emerged: COH•II•LEG•XIIX. Over and over, he read the inscription. His pulse hammered in his ears. The standard was from one of the centuries in his cohort, and that meant that the skeletons around him had been some of his legionaries. Which century they had belonged to, Tullus couldn’t be sure. Tears pricked his eyes regardless.
‘What does it say?’ Fenestela’s voice was anxious.
Without a word, Tullus handed over the disc.
‘Jupiter,’ said Fenestela. ‘Fucking Jupiter on high.’
Tullus lifted another disc – it was blank – and another. It had no inscription either; nor did the next one. Soon there was only one before the hand grip attached by most signiferi to make carrying the standard easier. He eased the last disc and the grip free from the earth at the same time, tapping off the attached clods of earth against one of his greaves.
Tullus threw a casual glance at the grip first. It had been fashioned from deer horn, a common material, but what made it unusual was the cap of silver foil covering its free end. ‘Look,’ he said, his voice thick with sudden emotion.
Fenestela’s ruddy face lost its remaining colour. ‘It’s our standard. Our standard.’
Julius, their signifer, had fashioned the covering himself from silver foil, making the grip as unique as a man’s scars. Tullus and Fenestela shared a glance then, this one laden with raw grief, and Tullus turned over the last disc in his hand. CENT•I, he read. Grief – and terrible memories – washed over him anew. A tear dropped from his eye on to the lettering, and a tiny part of Tullus was surprised that it didn’t turn blood red. ‘I don’t remember seeing Julius die. He was still with us on the last day, wasn’t he?’
‘Aye,’ said Fenestela. ‘I can’t recall him falling either. One of the others must have grabbed the standard when he did, and tried to get away with it.’
‘We must have already gone.’ Feeling guilty all over again, Tullus reached down and patted the dead man’s skull. ‘You did your best, brother. Rest in peace now. The standard is back with us.’
Straightening, he found every soldier in sight watching. It wasn’t surprising, thought Tullus. Fenestela calling him over would have alerted them. He cupped a hand to his lips. ‘We’ve found our century’s standard. Tread light, brothers. Every skeleton lying around you is that of a comrade.’
The words were barely out of Tullus’ mouth before his long-held-in grief struck him with the force of a storm wave hitting a harbour wall. He dropped to one knee beside the skeleton, and a sob escaped him. Beside him he heard Fenestela, a man he’d never known to give in to sorrow, weeping.
No one spoke for a long time.
In the end, Tullus mastered his pain by force of will. Getting to his feet, he ordered his men to begin the terrible task of burying their comrades.
They had started before midday. Now the sun was low on the horizon and every part of Tullus ached. His arms, his shoulders, his thighs, his back – especially his back. Hours of swinging a pickaxe had brought up blisters – new, ruptured, forming – over both his palms. The neck scarf that he’d tied around his forehead was soaked through with sweat and, under his mail, his tunic was stuck fast to his back. Waves of exhaustion battered at him, and at last he had to stop digging. He had done his bit, Tullus told himself, and there were plenty of willing and able men. Every one of his old legionaries was there, labouring with grim purpose on the mass grave. His and Fenestela’s voices weren’t needed, nor his vitis. In fact, Tullus hadn’t heard a single complaint in that time, nor seen a man stop working other than to take a mouthful of water.
He could not rest for long – he wasn’t able. Six years he’d been unable to do anything for his slain men. Now his moment had come. Wielding a pickaxe was beyond him, so Tullus began carrying the skeletons they had wrapped in blankets and, with great reverence, lowering them down into the pit. It was emotional, horrific work, and he couldn’t help but wonder which legionary each bundle of bones might have been.
A tight band of pain wrapped itself around his chest after a while, but he ignored it. He would not stand by and watch, even if the effort killed him. These are my men, Tullus thought, my fucking men. I couldn’t save their lives, but I can see them into the ground and say a prayer over their remains. Let me do that, Mars, d’you hear me? Fortuna, are you listening? I will do this. And next time you show yourself, Arminius, things will be different. I’ll be ready.
Chapter XXV
A month had passed, and Germanicus’ reprisals against the German tribes continued. The army moved ever eastward, searching out fresh settlements to destroy. No more eagles had been found, and Arminius had not been brought to bay, but Tullus remained hopeful. He forced his horse a few paces to the right, and off the road. ‘Keep marching,’ he bellowed.
‘Another piss stop for the centurion,’ commented one of the legionaries. ‘He’s been on the wine again,’ said another. Tullus pretended not to hear – his men could have their fun as long as they obeyed orders. He didn’t need to empty his bladder – they would see that soon enough.
Under his watchful eye, his century marched past, tramp, tramp, tramp, pounding flat the grass. By the time the rest of the vast army had passed, there would be nothing left underfoot but a fine powder. One of the benefits of being in the vanguard, thought Tullus, was not having to breathe in the dust cast into the air by tens of thousands of others. Another was that he had a good idea of what was going on – both from his viewpoint, and thanks to regular reports from the scouts and cavalry.
He craned his head, searching for Fenestela’s staff of office, a difficult thing to spot over the bobbing rows of helmets, yokes and javelins. It was a pain in the arse, Tullus decided for the ten-thousandth time in his career, that army protocol dictated an optio should march at the back of his century, while the centurion rode or walked at the front. Talking to Fenestela would leaven the drudgery of each day’s long march. Instead Tullus had to rely on occasional moments like this, when he broke ranks to have a word. Despite his irritation, the positioning made sense. If and when they were attacked, Fenestela’s role at the back would be vital, as was his own at the front.
Fenestela spotted him and lifted his staff in salute.
‘Everything all right, optio?’ Tullus called.
‘Yes, sir.’ Fenestela made a swift turn to his right, and with a few steps passed into the gap behind the last rank and the next century. He resumed marching to the left of their men, and Tullus nudged his horse forward, beside him. It was something they’d done innumerable times.
Fenestela spoke first. ‘Any news from the scouts?’
‘Not a thing. The countryside is empty, they say,’ replied Tullus, scowling. It wasn’t surprising that the tribespeople should flee into the forests and that Arminius and his warriors were avoiding direct confrontation, but gods, it was frustrating. A man could derive scant satisfaction from razing empty villages to the ground, and knowing that the last eagles were secreted deep in a cave or the like, far from the Romans. There had been some attacks, in the main ambushes on scouts and soldiers searching for food, but they had been inconsequential. Losing a handful of legionaries here and a dozen auxiliaries there harmed Germanicus’ army no more than a wasp sting bothered a bear.