A moment later, the three made obscene gestures and began walking in the opposite direction.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Vitellius.
‘I’m fine,’ replied Piso, even as the light-headedness took hold. His vision blurred, and he swayed.
Vitellius drew one of Piso’s arms over his shoulder and held it tight. ‘Lean on me, brother. Those bastards won’t come back. We can take it slowly to the barracks. We’ll have a nip of wine in a bit to give us some strength, eh?’
It hurt to laugh, but Piso did so anyway. ‘That sounds good. Were you looking for me?’
‘Aye. You were taking so long that we were dying of thirst. I said I’d find you.’
‘I’m glad you did. My thanks, Vitellius.’
Vitellius patted his hand. ‘You’re in my contubernium, and I’m in yours. We might hurl shit at one another, but we look after our own.’
At this, the pain that had been battering Piso’s body faded a little into the background.
For the first time, he felt like a real legionary.
V
Evening had fallen over Aliso. The legionaries of Tullus’ cohort had been allocated quarters some time since. While the five other centurions ate with the camp’s officers, he and Tubero had been invited to dine with the camp prefect Caedicius and the fort’s usual commander, Granius Marcianus, in the rundown praetorium. Caedicius’ presence here was to ensure that the summer needs of Varus’ army, which would pass the camp on its outward and return marches, were met. Tubero’s behaviour thus far had been exemplary. After several cups of wine, Tullus was beginning to think that perhaps he was just another eager young officer keen to prove himself, and out to make an impression.
Their surroundings might have seen better days, but every part of the large building was still grander than Tullus’ set of rooms at Vetera. The mosaic floors throughout wouldn’t have been out of place in an equestrian’s house in Italy. A fountain pattered in the central courtyard, and the mythical scenes painted on the walls of the larger chambers were as fine as he’d seen in any camp on the Rhenus. Caedicius and Marcianus were men who didn’t stand on ceremony, however. The couches upon which the previous occupant’s guests would have reclined had been stacked at the far end of the dining room, and a plain but serviceable table and set of chairs set up in their place. Tubero’s face had registered surprise at the informal arrangement, but he’d had the wit to remain silent. The primus pilus, or chief centurion of the Eighteenth for many years, Caedicius was now a camp prefect. Technically, Tubero outranked him, but in reality it was a different thing. Not that Caedicius made a thing of that either. He had ushered them to the table as any host might and poured each man wine with his own hands, while Marcianus had passed round the cups.
The olives that they’d had to start hadn’t been the freshest, but this far from Italy that was unsurprising, thought Tullus. The local cheese – and the wine, which was excellent – had more than compensated for their lack of flavour. So too had the leg of wild boar, roasted whole and served with garlic and rosemary. Silence had fallen over the table as the four officers set upon it.
Caedicius mopped up some of the juices on his plate with a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. After swallowing, he sighed. ‘Gods, but that tastes good.’ He reached out and pulled another strip of skin from the joint. ‘The crackling is always the best bit, eh?’
‘Indeed it is, sir,’ said Marcianus.
‘It’s my favourite too, sir,’ said Tullus, helping himself to a piece.
‘The meat’s delicious,’ added Tubero.
Caedicius chuckled. ‘Not to your taste, is it, tribune?’
Tubero squirmed. ‘It’s a little gamey,’ he admitted.
‘Better get used to it. You’ll find precious few dormice this side of the river.’
Marcianus laughed, and Tullus managed to bury his smile by swigging from his cup. ‘I’m not effete,’ said Tubero, the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘I don’t like dormice either.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Caedicius. ‘I’ve never been able to understand why people eat rodents. Snobbery is what it is, if you ask me. You might as well cook up a rat – there’d be more feeding in it.’ He eyed Tubero. ‘If not boar, what’s your choice of dish?’
‘I’m fond of fish. I haven’t tasted it yet, but I’m told that the salmon from the local rivers tastes wonderful.’
‘I’ll agree with you about that,’ said Caedicius, smiling. ‘The eels are good too. But enough of food. What news of Illyricum? Is it true that the war’s over?’ Everyone’s gaze switched at once to Tubero, most particularly that of Tullus, who had served there for more than a year.
‘It is, after three years. Word had just reached the capital as I was about to leave,’ said Tubero, pleased by the attention. ‘Tiberius and Germanicus vanquished the last rebels in Illyricum not two months since.’
‘Excellent news,’ declared Caedicius, raising his glass. ‘To the emperor!’
Tullus echoed the toast, feeling a little disappointed that he hadn’t been there to see victory. More of him was glad that he had survived, however. Recovering from the injury that had sent him back to Vetera and his legion had taken the best part of six months.
They all drank.
‘Augustus is said to be delighted,’ Tubero went on. ‘Rather than taking the customary title of Imperator, he is allowing Tiberius to use the honorific. Tiberius is also to celebrate a triumph upon his return to Rome.’
‘How times have changed,’ commented Caedicius in an undertone, winking at Tullus and Marcianus.
Marcianus hid his mirth, but not well. Tullus was also amused, but he kept a neutral face before Tubero. He had no reason to think that the tribune was a spy sent by Rome, but when it came to the imperial family, it paid to watch one’s mouth. He wasn’t going to be the one who mentioned Augustus’ previous dislike of his adopted son Tiberius. In a memorable damning of his now heir, the emperor had once been heard to say, ‘Alas for the Roman people, to be ground by jaws that crunch so slowly.’ For his part, Tullus liked Tiberius. Although not the type he’d want to go drinking with, Tiberius was solid and reliable and, most important of all, a general who cared for his soldiers. ‘It’s excellent that Augustus is recognising him in that manner,’ said Tullus. ‘He is a most able commander.’ Tullus saw Tubero’s blank stare, and added, ‘Four years ago, not long after he’d been adopted by Augustus, he served as governor of Germania, and led our legions over the Rhenus for two campaigning seasons.’
Tubero looked embarrassed. ‘Of course, of course, I remember.’
‘We marched as far as the River Albis, and overwintered in Germania,’ Tullus explained. ‘The year after that we would have crushed Maroboduus, but the Pannonian revolt put paid to that plan.’
‘Tiberius assembled ten legions, didn’t he?’ asked Tubero, his eyes glinting.
‘He did, sir. Four of them from this province. It was a grand sight,’ said Tullus, glancing at Caedicius. ‘Remember, sir?’
‘It stirred the blood, aye,’ growled Caedicius. ‘A damn shame that the campaign never happened. It was only five days until it began too!’
‘What does Varus plan for the summer?’ Tubero enquired of Caedicius. ‘Will we go as far as the River Albis, do you think?’
‘I don’t think so. Porta Westfalica is where you’ll make camp. Tullus?’
‘That’s what I’ve heard, yes, sir.’
‘Are the tribes in that area restless?’ Tubero’s eyes swung from Caedicius to Tullus, Marcianus and back again. ‘Is there any chance of fighting?’
Caedicius laughed. ‘Quite the lion cub, aren’t you?’
‘This is what I’ve been hearing since we left camp, sir. He’s keen for action,’ said Tullus, adding for the sake of diplomacy, ‘which is a good sign in a new officer.’
‘It is,’ Caedicius concurred. Tubero looked pleased until he added, ‘You might be disappointed, however, tribune. As far as I’m aware, the tribes between here and the River Visurgis seem content. The army’s main duty will be to collect taxes, while Varus holds court sessions and settles petty disputes.’