Eagles at War by Ben Kane Page B

centuries began to march after, each falling into line behind the next, standard-bearers at the front, and their centurions riding alongside. Tullus’ soldiers were in first position, as before, but he did not join them yet. When the entire unit was moving, he saluted Caedicius. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, sir.’
    Caedicius chuckled. ‘You look as if a couple more hours under the blankets would have helped. As for Tubero, well, they don’t make them like they used to, do they?’
    ‘I’ll be fine, sir. Tubero too. The fresh air will clear our heads.’
    Caedicius inclined his head. ‘Farewell until next we meet, Tullus.’
    ‘Farewell, sir.’ Tullus urged his horse after the cohort, grateful once more that he did not have to walk.
    The morning passed without event. Practised at dealing with hangovers, Tullus drank often from the two water skins he was in the habit of carrying. When the inevitable piss stops started to become necessary, he slipped from his horse’s back and ignored the chorus of ribald comments that accompanied him down the bank off the road. In his mind, for soldiers to make fun of their commanding officer was acceptable in certain circumstances. If Julius Caesar had tolerated his soldiers chanting that the men of Rome should ‘watch their wives, the bald adulterer’s back home’, who was he to care if his troops were amused by the small size of his bladder? What mattered was that they respected him, and that they obeyed his orders – both of which they did.
    Tubero wasn’t used to being the butt of ordinary soldiers’ jokes, however. Some time later, Tullus was riding along, eyes closed, imagining one of his favourite whores doing what she did best, when the senior tribune’s outraged voice dragged him from his reverie.
    ‘Tullus! TULLUS!’
    ‘Yes, sir?’ Fully awake, whore forgotten, he regarded a puce-faced, sweating Tubero from no more than ten paces. ‘What’s wrong, sir?’
    Tubero’s cheeks went a shade rosier. He cleared his throat and pulled his horse’s head around so that it faced forward again. When Tullus was alongside, he leaned in with a conspiratorial look. ‘I’m not feeling well this morning.’
    ‘Sorry to hear that, sir,’ replied Tullus.
    ‘I was feeling nauseous just now. I climbed off my mount by the side of the road, and was sick. I vomited.’
    ‘My sympathies, sir. These things happen. Has it passed?’ asked Tullus, holding in his amusement. He knew what was coming.
    ‘I don’t need sympathy, centurion.’ Tubero glared at the passing legionaries, one of whom had snickered.
    ‘No, sir,’ said Tullus, adopting the blank, uncomprehending expression favoured by low-rankers pretending not to understand an officer.
    ‘Your men mocked me! There I was, retching, feeling terrible, and all they could say was, “Too much wine last night, tribune?” or, “Typical. An officer who can’t hold his drink!”’
    Tullus put on a solicitous face. ‘That’s terrible, sir.’
    ‘One even said, “I’d like to see you in combat, tribune,”’ cried Tubero. ‘It’s insufferable. Outrageous!’
    ‘Did you spot the soldiers who made the comments, sir?’ asked Tullus, knowing full well what the answer would be.
    ‘Do you think I have eyes in the back of my head?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘You must do something,’ hissed Tubero. ‘Such contempt cannot be tolerated.’
    ‘I didn’t like it the first time it happened to me either, sir.’ He smiled at Tubero’s shock. ‘It happens to all of us, sir, even Varus.’
    ‘It’s indiscipline of the worst kind!’
    ‘Different rules apply on the march, sir. Stupid jokes don’t harm anyone, and they pass the time.’ Tubero did not look convinced, and Tullus added, ‘The dogs have been ribbing me all morning because of the frequency with which I’ve had to piss. “Look! The centurion’s at it again.” “His bladder must be the size of an apple.” “Keep out of the way, brothers. Tullus is about to