Hunting the Eagles by Ben Kane

his men, a child and a dog. Maybe Fortuna
had
been listening to him during those savage days of slaughter and mud. It wouldn’t hurt to ask for her help again, he decided, muttering a heartfelt request to the goddess.
    With the legionary delivered to Septimius, Tullus was free to lead his men out on patrol. The open road and monotony of the march made a welcome break from the claustrophobic atmosphere in the camp. Warm sunshine bathed the countryside, lending it a comforting orange glow. The bushes lining the road were heavy with blackberries, and in the fields beyond, the barley and wheat grown by local farmers was ready to harvest.
    Tullus’ apprehension eased as time passed. His men marched twenty-five miles in roughly six hours; like as not, they resented him for it, yet they were in good enough spirits to sing. Despite their fitness, which came from his continuous training, they were tired. Mutiny would be the last thing on their minds. Once they had unburdened themselves of their kit, had a wash and something to eat, they would be happy to sit by their fires before falling into their blankets.
    Although Tullus had ridden – he didn’t march much these days – he too was weary. His lower back ached, and there was a knot between his shoulder blades that needed the attention of someone practised at massage. His posture was still upright, however, and he continued to make regular checks on the marching column.
    ‘You’ve done well, men,’ he called out several times on his way back to the front of the patrol. ‘You’ll all have a cup of wine this evening.’
    They cheered him then, even the legionaries he had caught out at dawn. They’ll do, he decided with a sneaking pride. They won’t mutiny.
    Tullus was able to savour the feeling for perhaps half a mile, until the enormous training ground outside the camp drew near. Rather than being empty – a normal thing at this time of day – it was full. Thousands of legionaries stretched as far as the eye could see. His fears resurged with frightening speed. This was no parade. He could see no unit or cohort standards, let alone eagles. There were no neat divisions between cohorts, or indeed legions. What he saw was a mob, and an angry one at that, he thought, as the first shouts reached his ears.
    ‘Halt!’ Tullus barked. ‘Optio, get up here! You too, Degmar.’
    Fenestela let out a low whistle as he took the scene in. ‘Vulcan’s sweaty arse crack. They’ve done it. The mad bastards have risen up.’
    Hearing it spoken out loud made it far worse. Tullus chewed on his cheek, and wondered what to do.
    Degmar, a short, wiry warrior with black hair, looked mystified – and somewhat amused. He’d been Tullus’ servant cum bodyguard since just before Arminius’ ambush, and was like his shadow – ever present. ‘What are your orders?’
    There were two options, thought Tullus. The first, and easiest, was to march his men straight past the gathering, to their tents. He could then send Fenestela, or one of the other officers, to find out what was happening, while he assessed the state of affairs in the camp. His second choice was to lead his soldiers towards the mob, and see for himself. To do so would give him an immediate understanding of how serious the situation was, while running the genuine risk of losing control of his troops if this
was
a mutiny.
    He studied his men, who seemed keen to know what was going on. Yet their ranks were steady, and Tullus’ heart squeezed. Despite his best efforts, they
had
become dear to him. For the most part, they were good soldiers, and disciplined. He was almost certain – almost – that they would follow his orders here if things turned to shit. He didn’t want to test them, though. The dressing-down he’d had to give the eight soldiers outside their tent was too recent, and the nearby gathering too large and unruly.
    ‘We’ll return to the camp,’ he said.
    Fenestela’s eyes narrowed. ‘Because of this