Hunting the Eagles Read Online Free Page B

weren’t the same as they had been before, in the Eighteenth. How could they be? Tullus had served in it for a decade and a half, had become commander of the Second Cohort, one of the most senior centurions in the entire legion. Curse it, he’d known
every
centurion and most junior officers in the Eighteenth by name. I was a respected man, he thought, and now I’m just a rank-and-file centurion in the Seventh Cohort of a legion I barely know. The fucking Seventh! The majority of the legion’s centurions were men ten years younger than he, or more. It was especially galling that these almost-youths were also of superior rank.
    A good number of these centurions were courteous enough to Tullus, but there was a group of about a dozen who had taken against him from the start. He had come to recognise all too well their superior looks and snide comments. It went against the grain, but he tended to avoid confrontation with them where possible. There were only so many fights left in him, and Tullus wanted to keep them for those upon whom he wanted revenge – the
real
enemy – Arminius and the German tribes.
    The future appeared promising in that regard. Germanicus was governor now, as he’d promised. His need to supervise a new census throughout the vast province meant that there had been no campaign into Germania this year, but in the spring, things would change. According to the camp gossip Tullus had heard, the force to cross the Rhenus would be large – up to eight legions – and there would be little quarter offered to the empire’s foes.
    Tullus drained his beaker in one swallow, taking comfort from the warm glow as the wine ran down to his stomach. The jug he’d bought was empty too, so he looked about for a waitress.
    First to pass him was a skinny woman with awful teeth whose name he could never recall. ‘More wine,’ said Tullus.
    ‘Yes, sir.’ She took the vessel without even slowing.
    Best take it easy, Tullus decided as she vanished in the direction of the bar. It could be a long night. ‘Water it down, four parts to one,’ he called out.
    She turned, raised an eyebrow, but returned with a jug of dilute wine.
    Time passed. Several centurions and
optiones
from the Sixth Cohort came in, and invited Tullus to their table. After an hour of pleasant conversation, his decision to moderate his intake of wine had been forgotten. He’d had at least another jug, and was thinking that it was time to order another. Fenestela’s arrival was most opportune, therefore. ‘My round,’ he insisted.
    Tullus raised his hands. ‘Be my guest.’
    Fenestela came back with three jugs. ‘The place is getting crowded,’ he explained. ‘It saves having to queue up.’ He slid one down the table, towards the other officers, and parked the others between him and Tullus.
    They toasted one another, and drank. ‘May Germanicus lead us to victory, and to recovering the lost eagles,’ said Tullus, and clinked his cup off Fenestela’s again. ‘May we also kill or take Arminius.’
    ‘Aye. To the spring campaign.’
    They drank again.
    ‘Happy with the men?’ asked Tullus. He’d left Fenestela to march his soldiers back to the camp, and to oversee their last duties of the day.
    ‘I am. They were complaining about the length of training, and how they wanted hot baths, not cold river water, to clean up in. The usual stuff. The conscripts were whingeing the most.’
    ‘Nothing changes,’ said Tullus with a chuckle.
    ‘Piso volunteered for sentry duty again.’
    ‘Thank the gods that we managed to keep him with us, and Vitellius.’ The two were a little like him and Fenestela, thought Tullus, complete physical opposites. Where Piso was tall and good-humoured, Vitellius was short and acerbic. That didn’t stop them being the best of friends, and excellent soldiers.
    ‘They’re both good men.’
    ‘That’s certain.’ After the ambush, Tullus would have liked to have held on to every legionary from his original unit,