Aided by the wine perhaps, Tubero’s restraint fell away. ‘I didn’t come to Germania to listen to court cases!’
Cheeky bastard, thought Tullus.
‘With respect, senior tribune, you’ll do as you’re ordered,’ barked Caedicius, all primus pilus once more. ‘Whatever the duty may be.’
‘Of course,’ said Tubero, flushing. ‘My apologies.’
Caedicius’ fierce expression eased. ‘If I’ve learned one thing in the army, Tubero, it’s to expect the unexpected. You must always be prepared to fight, even if it looks unlikely. That way, when it happens – and it will happen to you sometime – you’ll be ready.’
‘I’ll remember that. Thank you for your advice,’ said a chastened Tubero.
Caedicius saluted him with his cup. ‘Old I may be, but I know a thing or two about war. As do we all, eh, Tullus? Marcianus?’
‘We’d be poor soldiers if we didn’t, sir,’ said Tullus with a smile.
Marcianus chuckled before saying, ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, sir. The tribune might find this interesting too. One of my officers mentioned a trader who passed the camp today. The man was talking about some trouble caused by the Tencteri.’
Tullus’ ears pricked up. Tencteri territory lay some distance to the south of Aliso, but was still close to the Rhenus.
Caedicius frowned. ‘What did he say, Marcianus?’
‘It seems that a band of Tencteri has been cattle raiding among the Usipetes in the last ten days or so. According to the merchant, they started off on the fringes of the Usipetes’ lands, but they’ve grown bolder. A couple of men were killed during their latest raid, and there’s been talk of retaliatory attacks.’
Tubero looked confused, so Tullus explained, ‘Cattle rustling is a perennial problem in Germania, tribune. It’s a badge of honour for young warriors to steal beasts from another tribe. In recent years, the chieftains have been quick to step in before things get out of hand, but that doesn’t always work. Sometimes our troops are needed to restore order.’
Tubero looked like a small child who’d been handed a pastry. He glanced at Caedicius. ‘How far away is this happening?’
‘Too great a distance for us to consider investigating without permission,’ said Caedicius. ‘I will advise Varus of this development, and if the governor sees fit, a detachment of troops will be sent to investigate.’
‘Perhaps I could lead that unit,’ Tubero suggested.
‘Varus will be the man who decides what action will be taken, if any,’ answered Caedicius.
Disappointment filled Tubero’s eyes again. Tullus felt for him. Officers with initiative were a valuable asset to a legion. ‘If Varus decides to send a patrol out, and you were to petition him for its command, he might grant your request, sir,’ he offered.
‘Let us hope so,’ said Tubero. He lifted his cup. ‘Fortuna grant that it is I who is sent to settle the dispute.’
By the following morning, Tullus was regretting the late night he’d had. True to form, Caedicius had insisted that they keep drinking after the food had been cleared away. Marcianus, a pisshead of the first order, had been happy to obey, and Tubero had still been keen to impress, so Tullus’ protests had been in vain. His memory of the end of proceedings was hazy, but he was certain that the third watch had sounded as he fell into bed. The dawn trumpet, which sounded what seemed like moments later, had been most unwelcome.
Dry-mouthed and sweating, he’d gone straight to the baths and jumped into the cold pool. After a short spell, he had moved to the hot room, and then back to the frigidarium. Somewhat revived, he had forced down a few mouthfuls of water and pulled on his armour before inspecting the cohort. Prompted by Fenestela and the other centurions, it had already formed up in the wide space between the walls and the barracks, ready to march back to Vetera. As he stalked the formation, three centuries wide and two deep, Tullus noted that some men looked worse for wear, but most seemed fit and ready. Given his own state, he decided to say nothing. The soldiers could be assessed as they marched. As long as everyone kept up, he could overlook a few hangovers.
It was some consolation that when Tubero appeared – late – he was red-eyed and pale-faced. Tullus affected not to notice.
Caedicius came to bid them farewell. To Tullus’ chagrin, he looked as spry as a man half his age who hadn’t touched a drop. ‘I’ll see you in the summer,’ he declared. ‘May the gods guide all of our paths until then. Good luck, tribune.’
Tubero’s response was more scowl than smile. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Ready, sir?’ asked Tullus of Tubero.
There was a grim nod.
‘You have Caedicius’ letters for Varus?’
‘My staff officer has them.’
‘Very good, sir. With your permission, then?’
A weak gesture from Tubero indicated that he should continue.
Satisfaction filled Tullus. He’ll be as quiet as a mouse on the way back, he thought. He gave the order to turn about face, and to move out in turn after the tribune had led off. Tubero and his followers rode past the front ranks of the cohort, towards the gate. In neat ranks, the centuries began to march after, each falling into line behind the next, standard-bearers at the front, and their centurions riding alongside. Tullus’ soldiers were in first position, as before, but he did not join them yet. When the entire unit was moving, he saluted Caedicius. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, sir.’
Caedicius chuckled. ‘You look as if a couple more hours under the blankets would have helped. As for Tubero, well, they don’t make them like they used to, do they?’
‘I’ll be fine, sir. Tubero too. The fresh air will clear our heads.’
Caedicius inclined his head. ‘Farewell until next we meet, Tullus.’
‘Farewell, sir.’ Tullus urged his horse after the cohort, grateful once more that he did not have to walk.
The morning passed without event. Practised at dealing with hangovers, Tullus drank often from the two water skins he was in the habit of carrying. When the inevitable piss stops started to become necessary, he slipped from his horse’s back and ignored the chorus of ribald comments that accompanied him down the bank off the road. In his mind, for soldiers to make fun of their commanding officer was acceptable in certain circumstances. If Julius Caesar had tolerated his soldiers chanting that the men of Rome should ‘watch their wives, the bald adulterer’s back home’, who was he to care if his troops were amused by the small size of his bladder? What mattered was that they respected him, and that they obeyed his orders – both of which they did.
Tubero wasn’t used to being the butt of ordinary soldiers’ jokes, however. Some time later, Tullus was riding along, eyes closed, imagining one of his favourite whores doing what she did best, when the senior tribune’s outraged voice dragged him from his reverie.
‘Tullus! TULLUS!’
‘Yes, sir?’ Fully awake, whore forgotten, he regarded a puce-faced, sweating Tubero from no more than ten paces. ‘What’s wrong, sir?’
Tubero’s cheeks went a shade rosier. He cleared his throat and pulled his horse’s head around so that it faced forward again. When Tullus was alongside, he leaned in with a conspiratorial look. ‘I’m not feeling well this morning.’
‘Sorry to hear that, sir,’ replied Tullus.
‘I was feeling nauseous just now. I climbed off my mount by the side of the road, and was sick. I vomited.’
‘My sympathies, sir. These things happen. Has it passed?’ asked Tullus, holding in his amusement. He knew what was coming.
‘I don’t need sympathy, centurion.’ Tubero glared at the passing legionaries, one of whom had snickered.
‘No, sir,’ said Tullus, adopting the blank, uncomprehending expression favoured by low-rankers pretending not to understand an officer.