similar treatment to any others they saw.
Spotting two figures engaged in quiet conversation by his tent, Tullus wondered if another soothsayer was looking for custom. His pace quickened, and he readied his vitis. ‘If it’s the same fool I saw yesterday,’ he muttered to himself, ‘I’ll tear him a new arsehole.’
To Tullus’ surprise, it was Piso and Vitellius. ‘What are you up to?’ he growled. ‘Fancy yourselves some extra sentry duty?’
Piso let out an uneasy laugh. ‘No, sir.’
‘Clear off then. I’m tired.’
Piso shuffled his feet, but he didn’t move. Surprised, Tullus was about to raise his voice when Piso whispered, ‘Can we have a word with you, sir, in private?’
The request was unusual in itself, but the pair’s nervousness was also odd. ‘Very well.’ Tullus glanced left and right, and was pleased that there were no soldiers close by. ‘Sit.’ He planted himself on the three-legged stool that had replaced the one he’d lost, with so much else, during the ambush. The two men sat cross-legged in the dirt, on either side of his still-glowing fire. ‘Speak,’ Tullus ordered.
Piso looked at Vitellius, who nodded. Encouraged, Piso began, ‘I don’t know how to say this, sir, other than straight out.’ He lowered his voice even further. ‘There’s talk of mutiny.’
‘Mutiny?’ Tullus rolled his tongue around a suddenly dry mouth. Three decades he’d been in the army without witnessing such a thing. This might explain the camp’s unhappy atmosphere, he thought. ‘Tell me everything, from the start.’
He listened, grim-faced, as Piso spoke of the illegal gathering that he and Vitellius had witnessed. They had just been going to play dice, Piso repeated multiple times. In the end, Tullus told him to stop, that he knew they were both loyal – why else would they have come to him?
When Piso revealed that there had been men from his century there, Tullus held up a hand. It didn’t surprise him that much – there were malcontents throughout the army – but it rankled. A lot. ‘Give me their names.’
After a brief hesitation, Piso obeyed.
‘Only three?’ demanded Tullus, thinking: there are more conscripts and pissed-off veterans than that under my command. Fenestela spoke of six to ten.
‘Those were the only ones I saw, sir, on my life.’
Commanding Piso to finish his story, Tullus stared into the orange-red embers of his fire, pondering what to do. A deeper gloom took him after Piso related how Bony Face had directed those present to recruit as many men as possible. Was it already too late to act? Tullus wondered, jabbing a stick at the burning logs until trails of sparks wandered up into the darkening sky. If it wasn’t, what was the best action to take?
To arrest Bony Face and his cronies, as well as the three men seen by Piso, would be a start, he decided, and better than nothing. Unless the centurions of each cohort were blind, deaf and dumb, they would have a fair idea of the troublemakers within their units. A lightning-quick exercise carried out by loyal troops under the cover of darkness could see the ringleaders, or most of them, incarcerated before dawn. The potential mutiny would be nipped in the bud.
For that to happen, however, Tullus would need to persuade Septimius, his prick of a senior centurion, of the danger – and after him, a tribune. If Tullus managed to get that far, he had the mountain-sized problem that was his legate Tubero to contend with.
The man had been a pain in the arse since he first appeared, five years ago, thought Tullus. It was usual for noblemen to serve as legion tribunes from the age of twenty and upward, but Tubero’s father’s friendship with the emperor had seen him appointed at the tender age of seventeen. His subsequent rash behaviour and refusal to listen to Tullus’ advice had helped to push one of the German tribes towards rebellion. The headstrong youth had escaped Arminius’ ambush thanks only to a
Spotting two figures engaged in quiet conversation by his tent, Tullus wondered if another soothsayer was looking for custom. His pace quickened, and he readied his vitis. ‘If it’s the same fool I saw yesterday,’ he muttered to himself, ‘I’ll tear him a new arsehole.’
To Tullus’ surprise, it was Piso and Vitellius. ‘What are you up to?’ he growled. ‘Fancy yourselves some extra sentry duty?’
Piso let out an uneasy laugh. ‘No, sir.’
‘Clear off then. I’m tired.’
Piso shuffled his feet, but he didn’t move. Surprised, Tullus was about to raise his voice when Piso whispered, ‘Can we have a word with you, sir, in private?’
The request was unusual in itself, but the pair’s nervousness was also odd. ‘Very well.’ Tullus glanced left and right, and was pleased that there were no soldiers close by. ‘Sit.’ He planted himself on the three-legged stool that had replaced the one he’d lost, with so much else, during the ambush. The two men sat cross-legged in the dirt, on either side of his still-glowing fire. ‘Speak,’ Tullus ordered.
Piso looked at Vitellius, who nodded. Encouraged, Piso began, ‘I don’t know how to say this, sir, other than straight out.’ He lowered his voice even further. ‘There’s talk of mutiny.’
‘Mutiny?’ Tullus rolled his tongue around a suddenly dry mouth. Three decades he’d been in the army without witnessing such a thing. This might explain the camp’s unhappy atmosphere, he thought. ‘Tell me everything, from the start.’
He listened, grim-faced, as Piso spoke of the illegal gathering that he and Vitellius had witnessed. They had just been going to play dice, Piso repeated multiple times. In the end, Tullus told him to stop, that he knew they were both loyal – why else would they have come to him?
When Piso revealed that there had been men from his century there, Tullus held up a hand. It didn’t surprise him that much – there were malcontents throughout the army – but it rankled. A lot. ‘Give me their names.’
After a brief hesitation, Piso obeyed.
‘Only three?’ demanded Tullus, thinking: there are more conscripts and pissed-off veterans than that under my command. Fenestela spoke of six to ten.
‘Those were the only ones I saw, sir, on my life.’
Commanding Piso to finish his story, Tullus stared into the orange-red embers of his fire, pondering what to do. A deeper gloom took him after Piso related how Bony Face had directed those present to recruit as many men as possible. Was it already too late to act? Tullus wondered, jabbing a stick at the burning logs until trails of sparks wandered up into the darkening sky. If it wasn’t, what was the best action to take?
To arrest Bony Face and his cronies, as well as the three men seen by Piso, would be a start, he decided, and better than nothing. Unless the centurions of each cohort were blind, deaf and dumb, they would have a fair idea of the troublemakers within their units. A lightning-quick exercise carried out by loyal troops under the cover of darkness could see the ringleaders, or most of them, incarcerated before dawn. The potential mutiny would be nipped in the bud.
For that to happen, however, Tullus would need to persuade Septimius, his prick of a senior centurion, of the danger – and after him, a tribune. If Tullus managed to get that far, he had the mountain-sized problem that was his legate Tubero to contend with.
The man had been a pain in the arse since he first appeared, five years ago, thought Tullus. It was usual for noblemen to serve as legion tribunes from the age of twenty and upward, but Tubero’s father’s friendship with the emperor had seen him appointed at the tender age of seventeen. His subsequent rash behaviour and refusal to listen to Tullus’ advice had helped to push one of the German tribes towards rebellion. The headstrong youth had escaped Arminius’ ambush thanks only to a
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