Piso’s heart twinged at the mention of Afer, who had been his first friend when he joined the army. Now his bones mouldered in the forest, like so many thousand others. Afer had died saving Piso’s life, and Piso remembered him every day for that. However, Vitellius’ tale was riotous, all men falling into latrine trenches and being sick in other men’s drinking cups, and its gutter humour helped Piso to stop brooding about the danger they were in – for a time at least.
Emerging on to a larger avenue, they aimed towards the northwest corner of the camp. Neat rows of tan-coloured goatskin tents ran off in every direction. Dozens, scores, hundreds of them, each home to a contubernium of legionaries. There was nothing unusual about the tents – the complete opposite in fact. Their presence and layout was something Piso was accustomed to, but it drove home more than he’d anticipated how alone he and Vitellius were.
The men standing about, talking, cooking, and farting inside their tents, were all mutineers. Vitellius’ voice faded into the background as Piso studied the nearest soldiers sidelong. That man there, stretching as he came out of his tent, and that one, striking flints together to light a fire, and another, scratching his stubble and giving them a friendly nod, they were no longer comrades. They were rebels, men who would gut him and Vitellius for staying loyal. They were the enemy.
‘You hungry?’ asked Piso as the familiar smell of cooking porridge filled his nostrils.
Vitellius looked irritated at being interrupted. ‘I had a bite before we left. Reckoned we mightn’t get a chance to eat until tonight. You?’
‘Not even a crumb, worse luck. If the truth be told, I was feeling sick,’ said Piso. ‘Funny thing is, I’m fucking starving now.’
‘You’re getting used to being out here,’ whispered Vitellius, giving him an evil smile. ‘I don’t want to hear how hungry you are for the rest of the day, mind. It’s your own fault.’
‘Screw you,’ retorted Piso, giving Vitellius a shove.
They both laughed.
‘Want something to eat?’ called a voice.
Terror closed Piso’s throat. How could they have been so stupid, he wondered, talking loud enough to be overheard? Casually, he turned his head. Fifteen paces away, a squat barrel of a man in a stained tunic stood over a fire. A ladle dangled from his hand, and at his feet, wisps of steam rose from a battered pot perched amid the burning logs. Somehow Piso found his voice. ‘What are you cooking?’
‘Porridge, same as every other whoreson in the place,’ came the reply, with a dirty chuckle. ‘You two have been on sentry duty at the front gate, eh? Your tent mates will have shovelled down all the porridge at your tent by the time you get back. I know what the bastards are like. My friends’ – and he jerked a dismissive thumb at the tent behind him – ‘did the same to me two nights ago, so you’re welcome to share mine.’
‘You’re a generous man,’ said Vitellius. ‘But you will leave yourself with none. We’ll find a morsel somewhere.’
‘We have plenty.’ Barrel nudged a nearby sack with the toe of his sandal. ‘Yesterday I broke into part of the quartermaster’s stores that by some miracle hadn’t yet been ransacked. I came away with this and half a ham. You’re not having any of the meat, but I can manage a bowl of porridge.’
Piso glanced at Vitellius, who gave him a look. Piso wasn’t sure if it meant ‘Why not?’ or ‘Walking away will look suspicious’, but he couldn’t prevaricate either, because that too might cause suspicion, so he smiled at Barrel. ‘Gratitude, brother. I’m famished.’
‘The hours seem to double in length when you’re pacing up and down a fucking rampart, with only the corpses of centurions in the ditch to look at. Come on over,’ said Barrel. He shoved out a meaty hand. ‘Gaius.’
‘Piso. My friend’s called Vitellius.’ The situation in the camp was really bad, Piso thought, if there were dead centurions in the defensive ditch beyond the rampart. He wondered how many had been murdered.
Gaius gave them both an amiable grin. ‘No sign of Germanicus, was there?’
Fresh alarm bathed Piso. He had to pretend that they had been on watch all night. ‘No, not a thing.’
‘I didn’t think so. The way I’ve heard it, whoever is on sentry duty has to alert the whole cursed camp when that happens. The leaders want everyone there to greet him.’
‘That’d be right,’ agreed Piso, his palms prickling, hoping not to get caught out.
‘I’d love to see Germanicus’ face when he realises how many of us there are,’ said Gaius, filling a cracked red Samian bowl and handing it to Vitellius. ‘Four entire legions, bar the few miserable cocksuckers who remained “loyal”.’
‘The prick will shit his perfumed undergarment,’ said Vitellius, with a grateful nod for the porridge.
Chuckling, Gaius passed a bowl to Piso, whose heart was still pounding at the mention of ‘loyal’ men. ‘Got your own spoon?’
‘Aye.’ Piso fumbled in his purse, grateful that he hadn’t removed his spoon before leaving the principia. He blew on the steaming oats, and took a mouthful. ‘It’s good.’
‘There’s no need to lie,’ said Gaius with a snort. ‘The shit tastes the same as always. Plain but filling.’
‘It’s more than we had a moment ago, and we’re grateful,’ said Piso.
Gaius looked pleased. ‘You going for a kip after this?’
‘Might as well, eh?’ replied Vitellius. ‘It’s not as if any cursed centurion or optio will stop us.’
‘It’s like being in Elysium not to have fucking trumpets wake me before sparrow’s fart every morning,’ said Gaius, chuckling. His face grew serious. ‘What did you do to your centurion?’
‘Gave him a good hiding,’ lied Piso. ‘I’d say we cracked most of his ribs before we’d finished.’ Gaius stared at him, and Piso felt his pulse flutter. ‘And yours?’ he asked.
‘He’s dead. Happened on the first day.’
Gods above, thought Piso. He was glad when Vitellius stepped in. ‘A bad ’un, was he?’
‘One of the worst. The type who’d beat a man because one of his belt buckles wasn’t shiny, you know. The funny thing is, the fool could have got away. We hadn’t decided to kill him when it all started. I don’t think he really believed us when we told him that we were taking control of the camp and that he should clear off. He laughed in our faces. That riled us, but when he reached for his vine stick, well …’ Gaius’ eyes went out of focus for a moment, then he spat into the fire, making it hiss. ‘When we were done, he had more holes in him than a wine strainer. Good fucking riddance to him, that’s what I say.’
‘He’s no loss,’ said Piso, surprised to mean what he said. Life under such a centurion would be miserable beyond belief. Tullus wasn’t just a good leader, he decided – the man was fair too.
‘There were a few centurions like that in our legion,’ growled Vitellius. ‘They got short shrift.’
‘They say that at least twenty centurions have been killed, and one tribune. You heard that?’ asked Gaius.
‘Aye,’ Piso answered, adding for authenticity, ‘The figure varies a little, depending on who you’re talking to.’
‘And on how much wine the fucker has had,’ interjected Vitellius with a wink. ‘Some would have it that there isn’t an officer left alive for twenty miles, apart from those who made it into the principia.’
They all laughed.
‘Did you hear about the centurion from the Rapax?’ asked Gaius.
‘There have been so many stories,’ said Piso. ‘Which one are you talking about?’
‘The sewer rat who used to put lead in his men’s kit before a march so that their yokes weighed half as much again as normal.’
‘Men talk about him,’ said Vitellius with a realistic scowl. ‘A nasty piece of work.’
‘Not any more,’ revealed Gaius in triumph. ‘He went for a swim in the Rhenus on the first day – after his soldiers had tied a lead weight to each of his feet. It turned out that the bastard was a strong swimmer – he managed to stay afloat for an age. In the end, his men used him as target practice for their javelins.’