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There was no time like the present, Tullus decided. He was unarmed, but the soldiers could well be too, and they wouldn’t expect him to appear from nowhere. Surprise often made for success in battle. He padded on between the side of the tent and its neighbour. Halfway towards the front, he began to hit his vitis off the leather-panelled roof. Thwack. Thwack. ‘Outside, you maggots!’ he roared. Thwack. ‘OUTSIDE, NOW!’

He was standing at the tent’s front flap as its inhabitants emerged, one by one. Tullus was pleased that only two met his eye, and just one was armed, the conscript. He and the other man were the pair who had been urging the rest to join them. They hadn’t succeeded, though, which meant that Tullus had the advantage. ‘Form up!’ he shouted. ‘Here, in front of the tent. Move!’

The eight legionaries shuffled into a ragged line. The century’s other soldiers watched, curious, as Tullus stalked along in front of them, delivering an icy stare to each. ‘You’ve been talking about mutiny, eh?’ He stopped before the conscript with the dagger. ‘Eh?’ Down by his right side, Tullus held his vitis at the ready. He was almost positive that he could drive it into the soldier’s solar plexus if the fool thought about drawing his blade. ‘Talk to me, if you’re not to spend the next six months cleaning out the latrines!’

The man’s courage wilted, as a plucked flower does without water. ‘It’s nothing but talk, sir.’

‘Is that right?’ Vitis still ready, Tullus shoved his face into the face of the second soldier who’d spoken, a salt-and-pepper bearded veteran. ‘What’s this about beating up centurions, or worse?’

To his credit, this man held his gaze. ‘That’s just anger talking, sir. Men are unhappy about their conditions. Me, I’ve served twenty-four years. I’m almost entitled to my discharge, but there are others in a worse boat.’

‘If your words are true, there are wrongs that need to be righted,’ said Tullus with a nod. ‘But it doesn’t entitle you, or any other legionary, to mutiny. Mutiny.’ He glared at the veteran. This time, the man’s eyes dropped away. So did the conscript’s. ‘If I hear so much as a fucking whisper about this again, you will all be running circuits of the parade ground until you fucking drop. There’ll be no discharge or rise in pay because you will have all died of exhaustion! As it is, you two will receive ten lashes of the whip, and take care of the century’s latrines until we break camp. Every three days for the same period, you will also make a twenty-mile march, under the supervision of Fenestela. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the legionaries mumbled.

‘Louder,’ roared Tullus, bringing down his vitis on the veteran’s shoulders, and then those of his companion, three, four, five times – and another for good measure.

‘YES, SIR!’ the eight soldiers yelled.

‘Back into your tent, the lot of you.’ Tullus walked away, exposing his back, sure that he had cowed them. His confidence was soured by the knowledge that his victory had been temporary. It sounded as if the men had reasonable grounds for their grievances, and the threat of mutiny remained high. Throughout the camp, the conversation he had just overheard would be taking place – without officers being aware. Bad feeling spread fast, and talk of mutiny would spread even faster. This was the proof he needed, he decided.

It was time to take the matter to his superior officer.

Chapter V

After advising Fenestela and his other junior officers of what he’d heard, Tullus went to Septimius. He would have preferred to go over his senior centurion’s head, but protocol had to be followed. A cynical individual with a sour face and spiky grey hair, Septimius had a privately held chip on his shoulder towards anyone more high-ranking. Unable to reveal this for obvious reasons, he took particular delight in lording it over Tullus, who had once outranked him by some margin. It was heartening, therefore, when he first took Tullus’ concern at face value, and then announced that other centurions had come to him with similar worries. ‘I’ve told them to come down hard on their men, as you did.’ Septimius mimed using a whip. ‘There are few things that ten or twenty lashes won’t sort out.’

Tullus felt his relief slipping away. ‘Wouldn’t it be an idea to go to the senior tribune, sir? Or even the legate?’

Septimius fixed him with a stony look. ‘I am the cohort commander, not you. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Tullus, swallowing his anger.

Septimius jerked his head. ‘Dismissed.’

Remembering with bitterness how Varus had refused to heed his warning, Tullus obeyed, but his concerns continued to niggle at him as he made his way back to his tent. Perhaps he should sidestep Septimius anyway? He was weighing up his options when he spied the legate Tubero some distance down the avenue. The mere sight of him, self-assured and posturing, rammed home the truth to Tullus. If his chances of convincing Septimius were slim, they were non-existent when it came to Tubero.

On Tullus’ current course, he and Tubero would meet within the next 150 paces. Tullus cursed. He didn’t have the cushion, the distraction of his soldiers, with him, and Tubero had only a few of his staff officers as company. They were riding along, casual as you like, while ordinary soldiers scurried out of their way. He would notice Tullus, in his typical centurion’s helmet, at once.

A barbed remark of some kind was inevitable. Tullus considered his options. If he ducked down between the tents to either side, Tubero wouldn’t even notice that he’d gone. The alternative route would add moments to his journey, no more. The humiliation of it made Tullus seethe, however. Must I spend the rest of my career tiptoeing around, avoiding contact with cocksuckers like Tubero? he wondered. The internal question wasn’t yet whole before Tullus had set his jaw and kept walking – towards Tubero.

Twenty steps before he had drawn level with the legate, a sudden impact from the side made Tullus stumble. He staggered to the side, and the broom-wielding legionary who had collided with him fell on to the flat of his back. ‘What are you doing, fool?’ barked Tullus.

‘Your pardon,’ said the soldier, picking himself up. His face paled as he realised Tullus’ rank. ‘A thousand apologies, sir! I didn’t see you.’

‘That’s clear,’ replied Tullus with a sardonic look. ‘Sweeping?’

Looking even more embarrassed, the legionary raised his broom. ‘I was walking sideways, brushing, sir, and-’

‘You didn’t see me, I know, I know.’ Tullus considered disciplining the soldier, a man who looked to have only a few years’ service under his belt. He seemed terrified, as well he might after colliding with a senior officer. It had been a genuine mistake, he decided, and there was no point in adding to the tension in the camp. ‘Don’t let it happen again.’

The legionary stared. ‘Sir?’

‘I said, piss off!’

‘Yes, sir. T-thank you, sir.’ The stunned legionary saluted. He took a few steps towards the gap between the tents.

‘What’s going on here?’ Tubero demanded.

The legionary glanced over his shoulder. Fresh horror filled his eyes and he spun, coming to immediate attention. ‘The centurion was telling me off, sir.’

Curse my pride. I should have avoided this, thought Tullus. He turned to find Tubero ten paces away. In expensive armour, with blue eyes, blond curls and chiselled chin, he was the epitome of a Roman nobleman. The arrogant curl of his full lips that Tullus despised was there; so too was the malicious look that came into his eyes each time they met. Tullus wished yet again that Tubero had died in Arminius’ ambush, or that he had come across him during the savage battle. There was no doubt in his mind that Tubero had been terrified throughout the entire affair, pissing his underwear – and hiding, like as not, while his soldiers died all around him. If Tullus had possessed such information, Tubero would never have pressed for his demotion the way he had.