The Shrine (A Prelude to Eagles at War)

Part One

The Shrine

(A prelude to Eagles at War)

by

Ben Kane

Mogontiacum, Germania Superior, spring 6 BC

It was a fine day in the Roman province of Germania Superior. The scudding clouds overhead held little threat of rain, and regular intervals of warm sunshine were enough proof that winter had gone for another year. Outside the town of Mogontiacum, the road was packed with hundreds of legionaries and civilians, come to watch the annual foot race that formed part of the celebrations commemorating the tragic death three years previously of Drusus, beloved general of the local legions and stepson of the Emperor Augustus.

The contest would end at the tall, marble-faced memorial to Drusus. A cluster of high-ranking officers and civic officials watched there, from the comfort of a wooden stand that had been erected for the occasion. Lucius Cominius Tullus, a solid soldier with close cut brown hair and a long jaw, had done well to secure a spot on the road which afforded views right up to the monument. He had been passing through Mogontiacum the day before, and it had seemed a fine plan to stay for the race, which was famous far and wide.

Tullus was happy to linger because he was in no particular rush to finish his journey to Vetera, some two hundred miles down the river Rhenus. He needed a little time to think. His recent promotion from optio to centurion had meant leaving the 'Rapax' Twenty-First Legion, the unit which he'd joined as a stripling youth more than ten years before. It was a massive step – a positive one, to be sure, but one that needed to sink in. His future now lay with the Eighteenth Legion, in Vetera. If he kept his nose clean, led his men well and continued to distinguish himself in battle, he stood a decent chance of becoming a senior centurion, commanding a cohort, before the end of his career. A grin split his face. It was even possible that he could ascend to the dizzying heights of primus pilus, the highest ranking centurion of the legion.

The loud conversations of those around him brought Tullus back to the present, and the race, which would end soon. Soldiers from every legion stationed on the Rhenus and Danuvius rivers were taking part. It didn't feel right to support men from the Eighteenth yet; until his journey ended, he hadn't actually joined his new legion. His loyalties remained in Castra Regina, the home of the Rapax.

It had been the most natural thing in the world, therefore, to place his bets on soldiers from the Rapax. Tullus didn't know Fusco and Justus, the two finest athletes in his old legion, but he knew of them. The twelve-to-one odds offered by local betmakers for either man to win the race had only added to the appeal of backing them. A sense of duty had made Tullus also place twenty denarii on the best of the Eighteenth's runners, although the long odds made it unlikely that he would ever see a return.

Tullus let out a loud, luxurious belch, then another. The soldier in front of him turned with a truculent expression, but seeing the optio's helmet tucked under Tullus' arm, decided to keep his peace. In a jovial mood thanks to the wine he had consumed, Tullus affected not to have noticed the legionary's aborted challenge, concentrating instead on the road before them. Narrow, paved, winding, and lined with tombs, it led right towards the large military camp and Mogontiacum, and left to the settlement of Borbetomagus. At his back, adjacent to the river Rhenus, was the local amphitheatre, and on the other side of the road, some three hundred paces distant, was the grand monument that honoured Drusus.

'The race is about five miles long, eh?' asked Tullus of the legionary who had wheeled around.

         'That's right, sir,' came the penitent reply. 'They start at the gates of the main camp, head south on this road to the small encampment, and back again, to Drusus' monument. The first man to touch the inscription is the victor.'