Hunting the Eagles Read Online Free PDF Page B

love to taunt me, but I’d wager a year’s pay that
you
wouldn’t have made it through the forest. You’d have shit yourself and run off into the bog, like I saw so many do, or committed suicide because you couldn’t face death in battle.’
    ‘How dare you?’ hissed Cordus, furious.
    Tullus glanced around the room. All eyes were on them. Good, he thought. ‘I look forward to your leadership, sir, during the campaign next year, like every officer in the legion.’ He saw heads nodding, and a few cups being raised. Apart from Fenestela, Victor and the rest at his table, the others present had no idea of the animosity between him and Cordus. Tullus lifted his own beaker. ‘To our general, Germanicus, and to victory over the savages!’
    With a great roar of approval most of the customers were on their feet, shouting, ‘Ger-man-i-cus! Ger-man-i-cus!’
    With poor grace, Cordus added his voice to the clamour. He gave Tullus a venomous look as he headed for the latrine, but Tullus didn’t care. ‘That round went to me, I think,’ he muttered, retaking his seat. When Tullus revealed what he’d said, Fenestela let out a chuckle. ‘He won’t forgive you that one too quickly.’
    ‘Maybe he won’t,’ replied Tullus, still angry enough not to care. ‘But I won’t take an insult like that lying down. Escaping that forest with you and the rest was the hardest thing I’ve done. It’s also what I am proudest of, even if I should have saved more men.’
    Fenestela gripped his arm. ‘No one could have done more than you did, you hear me, Tullus?
No one
. Every single man who was with us would say the same.’
    Fenestela’s words could not convince Tullus that he had not failed, but he nodded.
    As if sensing his anguish, Fenestela filled Tullus’ cup to the brim and pushed it across the table. ‘To fallen comrades. May we see them again one day.’
    ‘One day.’ Chest tight with grief, Tullus drank.
    A horse galloped past the front of the tent with a thunder of hooves, moving in the direction of the road north. The rider’s urgency was an unusual enough occurrence for heads to turn, and questions to be asked. An optio near the door flap went and poked his head outside. ‘Looks like an official messenger,’ he announced.
    The clamour in the tent soon returned to its previous volume, although men were now debating the messenger’s reasons for travelling with such speed. Later, Tullus would decide that no one could have predicted the calamitous news that he bore.
    Not long after the rider had gone by, shouts and cries on the avenue outside became audible. This time, a centurion went to see what was going on. Not everyone spotted him come back, twenty heartbeats later, but Tullus did. The man’s face was as white as a senator’s new toga. Tullus shushed Fenestela and jerked his head at the centurion, who took a deep breath and said, ‘Augustus is dead.’
    Tullus felt a sudden lightheadedness. Fenestela’s expression was so shocked it verged on the comical. Few others had heard, however.
    ‘AUGUSTUS IS DEAD,’ bellowed the centurion. ‘THE EMPEROR, GODS REST HIS SOUL, HAS DIED.’
    All conversation stopped. More than one cup of wine was dropped to the floor. The musician playing a double flute came to a stuttering, discordant halt.
    ‘How can you know this?’ called Tullus. His protest was echoed by a dozen voices.
    ‘The news has just come in from Rome, they say,’ replied the centurion. ‘Messengers have ridden from the capital night and day since it happened, sent to every part of the empire.’
    Pandemonium broke out, replicating the disturbances already happening outside the tent. Officers collapsed into their seats and placed their heads in their hands. Some wept openly. Others had begun to pray. More still were downing cups of wine, offering up extravagant toasts to the dead emperor.
    ‘Fucking hell,’ said Tullus, feeling as weary as if he’d just finished a twenty-mile march. Augustus had