Hunting the Eagles Read Online Free

his reasoning.
    ‘Tell me again how the ambush went for you and your men.’
    The memories that Tullus had relived not long before were still fresh in his mind. His grief for the soldiers he’d lost, buried as best he could since the disaster, was yet bleeding raw. As for the shame he felt over the loss of his legion’s eagle, well, that cut like a knife – and now he would have to vocalise it all. There was little alternative other than to obey, though. Germanicus was one of the most powerful men in the empire.
    And so Tullus laid out the suspicions he’d had about Arminius, first fuelled by a conversation that his servant Degmar had overheard. It was a grim litany: Varus’ refusal to listen to him – twice; Arminius’ lie about the Angrivarii tribe rising against Rome; Varus’ decision to act against them, ordering the army off the road to Vetera and on to a narrow forest path; the initial attack, and the unrelenting horror that had unfolded over the subsequent days.
    Tullus described the tribesmen’s frequent, stinging assaults. The growing number of Roman casualties. The enemy’s terrifying renditions of the barritus. The constant rain. The ever-present mud. The way the legionaries’ morale had been chipped away bit by bit. The loss of first one eagle, and then a second – that of the Eighteenth, Tullus’ old legion. The realisation that there might be no escape for anyone.
    At this point, Tullus’ throat closed with emotion. With an effort, he continued, relating how he had – somehow – dragged fifteen soldiers out the bloody quagmire that had been the end of the battle. With Degmar’s help, they had made it to the safety of Aliso, a Roman fort. Together with its garrison, they had been pursued to Vetera, their legion’s base, but had reached it at last. When Tullus was done, he let out a ragged breath. Those days, the worst of his entire life, were etched into his memory like a deep-carved eulogy on a nobleman’s tomb.
    Germanicus had said not a single word throughout. At length, he asked, ‘How many men survived?’
    Tullus scratched his head. ‘Somewhat less than two hundred, I think, sir. That’s not including those taken prisoner by the Germans.’
    Germanicus glanced at Fenestela, whose expression had remained grim during the whole account. ‘Well? Did it happen as your centurion says?’
    ‘Aye, sir, except it were worse,’ said Fenestela, bobbing his head. ‘Far worse.’
    Another silence fell, one neither Tullus nor Fenestela dared break.
    Tullus threw a sidelong, grateful look at Fenestela, and wished again that his optio had obeyed his order to vanish. Deep down, though, he was glad to have Fenestela there. His optio was the truest of friends, who would stand by him no matter what. Facing the executioners would be their final battle.
    But his interrogation wasn’t over yet. ‘If I recall, you were a senior centurion?’ demanded Germanicus.
    ‘Yes, sir. Second Cohort, of the Eighteenth.’
    ‘That’s not your rank now.’
    ‘No, sir. I was demoted after the ambush.’ Tullus didn’t mention Tubero, who had orchestrated his reduction in rank. There was no point.
    To his relief, Germanicus made no further comment. ‘How many
phalerae
have you won?’
    Mention of his awards for valour always made Tullus a little uncomfortable. ‘Nine, ten, sir, something like that.’
    ‘It’s eleven, sir,’ chipped in Fenestela, ‘and he deserved every one of them.’
    ‘Thank you, optio,’ said Germanicus wryly.
    Fenestela coloured and turned his head. Germanicus then studied Tullus’ face for so long that
he
began to flush, and had to look away. Pronounce my sentence, and have done, Tullus wanted to say.
    ‘It seems to me …’ Germanicus paused.
    Tullus’ heart thudded. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
    ‘It seems to me that you did what few others could have done.’
    Confused, Tullus lifted his gaze to meet that of Germanicus. ‘Sir?’ he asked.
    ‘I like to take men as