Everyone stared.
‘He’s got a coin to pay the ferryman,’ said Metilius after a moment.
‘It won’t be any use to him,’ declared one of the others.
Every head was shaking – no – and, relenting, Piso said, ‘It’ll buy ’Tellius a headstone and us enough wine to float a boat. Maybe whores as well, if we’re not too extravagant. He’d approve, wouldn’t he?’
‘Of the headstone, yes. Don’t be so sure about the rest. ’Tellius kept his fingers tight on his purse,’ said Metilius with a wicked grin. ‘Which means we should sell it and spend the money anyway. ’Tellius’ moaning and whingeing – that we’re carousing at his expense – will carry all the way from the underworld.’
Everyone laughed, and like that it was settled. Piso tucked away the torque.
Metilius indicated that the rest should fetch their shovels, and thrust one into Piso’s hands. Trying not to think, Piso bent his back and eased a load of earth on to the tool’s flat surface. He waited until several comrades had heaved shovelfuls into the grave before doing the same. A soft thud marked its landing. Piso wanted to peer in, but he couldn’t bear to see his friend’s shroud-wrapped body disappearing under clods of earth. He picked up another load. In went the soil, mixing with the others’ efforts.
They worked in grim silence until the spot where Vitellius’ body lay was nothing more than a rectangle of fresh-turned earth. Metilius and Piso patted it down with their shovels, and one of the others erected the oblong wooden marker they’d fashioned. On the front, Piso had used the white-hot tip of a dagger to scratch Vitellius’ name and age. In the line below, his century, cohort and legion were recorded.
It didn’t seem enough, Piso thought, but there was no room for more writing. Worse, the elements would destroy the marker within a couple of years. Vitellius’ grave would then be lost forever.
It seemed a cruel fate.
Three days later, and Piso was exhausted. Fine weather, better conditions underfoot and the soldiers’ burning desire to reach Vetera had seen the army cover twenty-five, maybe even twenty-seven miles that day. Tullus’ cohort had been on camp construction duty, which had meant two hours of digging at the end of their energy-sapping march. Now Piso and his comrades sat on their blankets around their fire, dull-eyed, slump-shouldered, waiting for the miserable broth that was to be their supper. Despite the length of their journey and the lack of food and shelter, it had been a pleasant day. There had been no sign of the enemy whatsoever. Another two to three marches, and they’d reach the bridge over the Rhenus, or so the rumours went. Piso was relieved, yet he kept thinking of Vitellius, stiff and cold in his rough grave.
‘Will it be long?’ asked Metilius, jerking his chin at the pot hanging over the flames.
Piso leaned forward and stirred again. He tasted a mouthful, and added a pinch of salt. ‘Be another while. You can’t rush good cooking, as my mother always used to say.’
‘Funny man,’ said Metilius with a droll chuckle. ‘Let’s sort out ’Tellius’ stuff while we wait.’
Conversation around the fire stopped. All eyes bore down on Metilius as he unwrapped three blankets they’d taken turns to carry that day. The first contained Vitellius’ rusted mail shirt and the sweat-marked, ripe-smelling padded garment that he’d worn underneath. In the second were his arming cap and helmet, his baldric, belt and ‘apron’, and his well-used sword. Cooking utensils and personal effects filled the third.
Every item made Piso’s mind spin with memories of his friend. Vitellius gearing up of a morning, complaining about the weight of his armour, talking to himself as he prepared the group’s food, or combing his thinning hair with an old, double-sided comb. Piso checked over his shoulder, almost expecting to see Vitellius, to hear his outraged demands that they leave his bloody kit alone.
He heard nothing, and his sorrow bubbled up afresh.
Metilius laid his own helmet on the blanket and picked up Vitellius’ one, which was lighter and of a more modern design. ‘That’ll do,’ he said in a quiet voice.
Grief-stricken, unwilling to participate at first, Piso watched as, one by one, his comrades exchanged pieces of their equipment for items that had belonged to Vitellius. His folding knife and spoon – a rarity – went first, then his large bronze pot, which was good for making stew. Someone else took his belt and apron, another his strigil, ear scoop and nail cleaner.
‘Your turn,’ said Metilius to Piso.
Piso reached over and took first Vitellius’ comb, which for some odd reason would remind him most of his friend, and then his sword.
‘’Tellius was going to get rid of that. The blade is pitted to Hades and back,’ said Metilius.
‘The hilt is still good. The gods alone know how he afforded it,’ retorted Piso, his fingers trailing over the yellowed ivory, his mind bright with images of Vitellius. ‘I can have a new blade forged. Make the thing as good as new.’
‘’Tellius would have liked that,’ said Metilius, the others’ nods mirroring his approval.
They sat and stared for a time at the objects that remained, and then by common, unspoken consent, the blankets were rolled up again and placed to one side. The unwanted items were of no further use; they’d be left behind in the morning, when they marched out. Vitellius’ memory would live on in their hearts and minds, and in the pieces of kit which each of them had chosen.
Piso’s grief, razor-sharp since his friend’s unexpected death, had been eased somehow by the division of possessions. Surprised, relieved, he glanced around, sensing that the experience had also helped his tent mates.
Vitellius was gone, but, like Saxa and the rest, he would never be forgotten.
Chapter XLIV
Tullus’ horse had been lost with the baggage train, forcing him to march from the camp where they’d routed Arminius’ tribesmen. His knees were killing him as he trudged along, and there was a deep-rooted ache in the base of his spine, yet nothing could have shifted him from his place at the front of the cohort. The Fifth Legion was in the vanguard today, and Tullus’ had reached a gravelled road upwards of an hour before. The time he and his unit had spent on the paved surface meant the front cohorts had to be nearing the first bridge. Vetera was close, the pain almost at an end. Twenty-something miles they’d come since dawn, so the legions could reach the Rhenus and, beyond it, their camp. Despite the punishing march made on empty bellies, the soldiers’ complaints had been few and far between.
Morale had been high since their overwhelming victory, thought Tullus with satisfaction. It had continued to rise as first one day, and then two and three, had passed without further attacks. Reports from the scouts the previous evening, suggesting there were no tribesmen for miles around, had been greeted with glee. It seemed ever more probable that Arminius and his allies had given up for the year. Tullus’ own spirits grew more buoyant by the hour, but he had remained on guard. They weren’t home yet.
Before this, their final push, he had had words with the cohort’s centurions. Discipline was to be maintained, every able-bodied soldier to be ready for combat. The men could sing, but until their feet hit the western bank, everyone was to remain alert. With open ground on either side of their route and the countryside empty, he had perhaps been over-strict, he thought, but better that than being surprised again by Arminius.
The building used by the sentries who monitored the river crossing hove into view, and Tullus’ heart leaped. ‘Arminius won’t be putting in an appearance now, brothers. Bridge in sight!’