Hunting the Eagles by Ben Kane Page A

right. Makes it a shitload more frightening, though, eh?’
    ‘Gods, aye.’ Piso was fighting a continual battle to keep his fingers from straying to his sword hilt. He gave the phallus amulet at his neck a surreptitious rub. ‘What should we talk about? We can’t walk in silence – that might draw attention too.’
    ‘That’s easy,’ replied Vitellius, chuckling. ‘Stories about hunting, drinking and whores will keep us busy for hours. Longer, if
you
talk about gambling.’
    ‘You start.’
    ‘All right.’ Vitellius launched into the tale of a three-day drinking spree that he’d been on once, with Afer and two others of their old contubernium in the Eighteenth.
    Piso’s heart twinged at the mention of Afer, who had been his first friend when he joined the army. Now his bones mouldered in the forest, like so many thousand others. Afer had died saving Piso’s life, and Piso remembered him every day for that. However, Vitellius’ tale was riotous, all men falling into latrine trenches and being sick in other men’s drinking cups, and its gutter humour helped Piso to stop brooding about the danger they were in – for a time at least.
    Emerging on to a larger avenue, they aimed towards the northwest corner of the camp. Neat rows of tan-coloured goatskin tents ran off in every direction. Dozens, scores, hundreds of them, each home to a contubernium of legionaries. There was nothing unusual about the tents – the complete opposite in fact. Their presence and layout was something Piso was accustomed to, but it drove home more than he’d anticipated how
alone
he and Vitellius were.
    The men standing about, talking, cooking, and farting inside their tents, were all mutineers. Vitellius’ voice faded into the background as Piso studied the nearest soldiers sidelong. That man there, stretching as he came out of his tent, and that one, striking flints together to light a fire, and another, scratching his stubble and giving them a friendly nod, they were no longer comrades. They were rebels, men who would gut him and Vitellius for staying loyal. They were the
enemy
.
    ‘You hungry?’ asked Piso as the familiar smell of cooking porridge filled his nostrils.
    Vitellius looked irritated at being interrupted. ‘I had a bite before we left. Reckoned we mightn’t get a chance to eat until tonight. You?’
    ‘Not even a crumb, worse luck. If the truth be told, I was feeling sick,’ said Piso. ‘Funny thing is, I’m fucking starving now.’
    ‘You’re getting used to being out here,’ whispered Vitellius, giving him an evil smile. ‘I don’t want to hear how hungry you are for the rest of the day, mind. It’s your own fault.’
    ‘Screw you,’ retorted Piso, giving Vitellius a shove.
    They both laughed.
    ‘Want something to eat?’ called a voice.
    Terror closed Piso’s throat. How could they have been so stupid, he wondered, talking loud enough to be overheard? Casually, he turned his head. Fifteen paces away, a squat barrel of a man in a stained tunic stood over a fire. A ladle dangled from his hand, and at his feet, wisps of steam rose from a battered pot perched amid the burning logs. Somehow Piso found his voice. ‘What are you cooking?’
    ‘Porridge, same as every other whoreson in the place,’ came the reply, with a dirty chuckle. ‘You two have been on sentry duty at the front gate, eh? Your tent mates will have shovelled down all the porridge at your tent by the time you get back. I know what the bastards are like. My
friends
’ – and he jerked a dismissive thumb at the tent behind him – ‘did the same to me two nights ago, so you’re welcome to share mine.’
    ‘You’re a generous man,’ said Vitellius. ‘But you will leave yourself with none. We’ll find a morsel somewhere.’
    ‘We have plenty.’ Barrel nudged a nearby sack with the toe of his sandal. ‘Yesterday I broke into part of the quartermaster’s stores that by some miracle hadn’t yet been ransacked. I came away with