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but that wasn’t the way the army worked. If it hadn’t been for Caedicius, the former camp prefect of Aliso, now a good friend, Tullus would have retained none of his original command. Not even Fenestela. Tullus pushed away the thought. He
did
have Fenestela, and Piso and Vitellius.
That
counted more than his demotion.
    The rest of his soldiers weren’t a bad bunch, even if some of them – in particular the conscripts – weren’t well suited to military life. The conscripts had been forced into the army during the widespread panic in the months after Arminius’ ambush, when the emperor’s initial request for volunteers to join the army had met with a poor response. Augustus’ forcible draft had resulted in thousands of unwilling citizens joining the Rhenus legions. Every unit had a certain number of them, and some more than others. Tullus was grateful that his century had only twenty-five or so.
    His bladder twinged. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said to Fenestela. ‘Keep my seat.’
    Upon his return, Tullus was irritated by the sight, two tables over from his, of four centurions from the Second Cohort and a couple from the First, along with an assortment of junior officers from their units. It wasn’t correct to call them his enemies. Relations between them weren’t that bad. Adversaries perhaps, Tullus decided. He sat down opposite Fenestela, who had his back to them. ‘Have you seen—’ he began.
    ‘Aye,’ replied Fenestela, scowling. ‘The cocksuckers didn’t notice me, though.’
    ‘Nor me.’ That was the best way, thought Tullus, keeping his head down. He and Fenestela couldn’t fight ten men, never mind the fact that such behaviour was considered unacceptable for centurions. He had no desire to end his career in a lower-ranking cohort, or even in the ranks.
    ‘Listen to what they’re saying.’
    Tullus pricked his ears. As was natural, there was a lot of background noise: loud conversations, singing, an occasional shout, and bursts of laughter. It was fortunate that the two junior officers between their table and that of the group of centurions were talking in whispers. Like as not, they’re gossiping about which whorehouse to visit, thought Tullus.
    The centurions appeared to be discussing the next year’s campaign. ‘It’ll be good to get out of camp, and teach the German savages a lesson. They’ve been let away with it for too long,’ declared Flavoleius Cordus, a podgy-faced man with deep-set eyes. He was the senior centurion in the Second Cohort, which had been Tullus’ position in the Eighteenth. That rankled enough, not least because Cordus was a good officer, and popular in the legion. He was also fond of reminding Tullus that – in his mind at least – it hadn’t been right to allow some of Varus’ disgraced soldiers into the Alaudae.
    ‘We’ll make a better fist of it than Varus,’ said Castricius Victor, ranking centurion of the Third Cohort, and Cordus’ main henchman. Built like an ox, with the temperament of a wild bull, he was feared in equal measure by his soldiers and junior officers. He was also an arrogant, loud-mouthed boor. In Tullus’ opinion, his physical size and bravery had to be the reason he’d been promoted to the centurionate. ‘Not that that would be hard,’ Victor added with a snort.
    There was a rumble of agreement, especially from the junior officers at the table: optiones,
signiferi
and
tesserarii
.
    ‘I’d like to see the tribes try to surprise
us
,’ said Cordus. ‘The Seventeenth, Eighteenth and Nineteenth must have been sleepwalking to have been ambushed the way they were.’
    Their comments revealed how little understanding men had of the massacre in the forest. Tullus battened down his fury. Making a scene would get him nowhere. ‘As if the same wouldn’t have happened to them,’ he muttered.
    ‘I know,’ said Fenestela, glowering.
    Tullus continued to eavesdrop on his adversaries’ conversation. Before long, the topic had changed