Dawn broke over Pietas Iulia.

Lucius Arruntius Camillus Scribonianus, formerly Marcus Furius Camillus Scribonianus, stood at the door of his tent, surveying his armies. Yes, armies: two legions, plus auxiliary troops. Along with the camp followers, they made for a massive encampment.

It had taken some doing to arrange transport, but his officers had accomplished the near-impossible. Actuaria and oneraria, large merchant ships, had been commandeered (over their owners' protests) and stood at anchor in the harbour. Loading was bound to take all day. In case of spillover, the energetic transport chief had even rounded up backup in the form of naves vivariae.

That should speed up the loading, thought Scribonianus. Nobody wants to get stuck on the fish boats.

Peering out the tent – but careful not to be seen, as it would be beneath his dignity and also spoil his planned entrance, the would-be imperial usurper noted with some satisfaction how the crack troops of the Seventh were forming in neat squares at the front of the parade ground, facing the eagles. Very spit-and-polish, these troops. Their helmets gleamed in the early rays of the sunrise.

Right in front stood that Manius Flaccus Pertinax, looking nervous. That boy bears watching, thought Scribonianus. If he was any judge of character – and he was: he'd survived until now, hadn't he? – the kid's gung-ho air was deceptive. He might look and act like a miles gloriosus, but there were stirrings of brains behind that handsome face – and, possibly, inconvenient notions of honour. Still, at the moment, Pertinax was busy lining up his troops with mathematical precision. They looked appropriately military, as did the cavalry arranging itself on the sides, horses stamping restlessly.

If the Seventh looked parade-ready, the same, alas, could not be said for the Eleventh. Made up of provincial recruits, their training still a bit ragged, they filled up the rear as best they could. Their officers shouted orders, which often needed to be translated before they were obeyed. Scribonianus didn't care. Their sheer numbers were likely to impress all of Italy – and when loosed, they fought like demons.

Maybe it won't come to that, he thought. Maybe that fool Claudius will back down, after all. I'd hate to cause any damage in Rome itself. After all, I want to rule there. He paused, briefly indulging his imagination in a scene: riding to the Senate in a splendid chariot, bowing his bewreathed head in noble condescension at the adoring crowds, receiving his due in a glorious accolade, being greeted by his colleagues in the Senate as their new Emperor and First Citizen. . .

Ahem. Back to business.

His personal secretary, Grotus, came bustling into the tent, a wax tablet in hand. 'Here, sir. I've prepared a few talking points for you.'

'Talking – ? What are you on about?'

'Your speech, sir. It's customary.'

Scribonianus groaned aloud. 'Et tu, Grote? You think all generals make stirring, eloquent speeches before engagements, do you?'

'I believe it's customary, sir,' Grotus replied uncertainly. 'I mean, the speeches are in all the best histories.'

Scribonianus gestured out the tent flap. 'Have you looked out there?'

Grotus nodded.

'How many troops, would you estimate?'

'Er, about 20,000.'

'Survey the landscape we're on. Do you perceive an incline, a curvature to the terrain?'

Head-shaking: no.

'Is there a nearby cliff? Are there stone walls that sound could echo off?'

More head-shaking.

'Are we in a bloody amphitheatre, man?

Desperate head-shaking.

Scribonianus knocked the tablet out of the secretary's hand. 'Then don't talk to me about speeches!' More calmly, he added, 'I'll let you in on a secret: the historians make them up afterwards. You can make mine up.' He gave the astonished amanuensis a reassuring pat on the back, arranged his toga, and started for the tent flap. 'Close your mouth, you'll catch flies.'

Grotus closed his mouth, picked up his tablet and stylus, and prepared to follow and take notes.

The air was still relatively cool. The troops stood in good formation, although still restless, uncertain. They usually followed orders without hesitation – even nutty orders such as, 'Mad barbarians in the bear suits, three spear-rounds rapid!' But they were getting conflicting input: for days, Scribonianus's agents had gone from tent to tent, urging the governor's case. Promising to restore the 'ancient Roman order' with its obligations and privileges.

For the same number of days, the older soldiers had mused aloud that the 'ancient Roman order' hadn't done the plebs much good. The privileges were all on the side of the patricians and nouveaux riches, and they themselves had quite enough obligations, thank you very much. Besides, this was a plum billet, and they were in no hurry to go to Rome.

Still, they were used to taking orders. So here they stood, though not happily.

For his part, Manius Flaccus Pertinax was busy making sure his troops looked smart. He, too, was worried: what would his father say if he showed up on the Via Flaminia in the company of an army in revolt? He wished he knew what to do. What would Mucius Scaevola have done? Well, obviously, stuck his hand into the fire. But what good would that do here? Scribonianus would probably just laugh and make a joke about barbecue.

In desperation, Manius did what several million soldiers have done before and after: briefly shutting his eyes, he sent out a quick prayer to Whoever Might Be Listening.

'Get us out of this,' he begged. 'And I'll give up drinking, gambling, and girls. Well, drinking and gambling, anyway.'

All eyes were on Scribonianus as he mounted the makeshift platform and surveyed his troops. He looked appropriately Roman in his toga: erect, fit, and stern. He cast his gaze about the field. There was silence – or as close to it as 20,000 soldiers and attendant camp followers could get. Somewhere, a couple of horses nickered.

'Fellow Romans!' the governor bellowed. 'On to Rome! Glory awaits!'

'Glory awaits!' echoed the officers, fanatics, and sycophants. But it was a thin echo.

Scribonianus turned to one of the officers. 'Adorn the eagles,' he said impatiently. The officer hastened to do so: attendants brought the laurel wreaths and threw them over the two eagle standards in preparation for debarkation. The eagles were sacred, objects of veneration by the Roman armies. They went with them in battle. They were divine symbols. Where the eagles went, the troops would follow. Everyone gazed for a moment at the sight of their totems, ready for the march.

But only for a moment.

Suddenly, out of the rising sun, another eagle appeared. This one was alive – a golden eagle, in full flight. Without hesitation, it swooped down to the stationary Roman effigies of itself. . . and stole the laurels, one after another. The first wreath dropped to the ground. The second it snatched in its beak and flew away in the direction of the nearby woods.

The assembly gaped in horror. This was a lousy omen, to put it mildly.

Scribonianus was the first to recover. 'Stop that eagle!' he commanded.

His officers stared at him. Stop an eagle in flight? How? Besides, anyone with a lick of sense knows not to tussle with a large bird of prey. Certainly without gloves and a full set of armour.

The giant ill-omened bird continued on its way unchallenged.

Scribonianus decided to double down. 'Ah! The eagle is here to wish us well! It bears our laurels before us!'

From the ranks, Manius could hear someone muttering, 'Yeah, sure. That's why it headed into the woods where the bandits lurk. It's probably telling us to head for the hills.'

Scribonianus knew he wasn't convincing them, but his die was cast. 'Raise the eagles!' he shouted. 'On to Rome – and glory!'

The designated troops saluted. They approached the eagles – one for the VII and one for the XI Claudia.

They reached for the poles.

They started to lift the poles from where they were symbolically stuck into the Dalmatian earth, to show that Roman legions were here. (As if the countryside didn't know, what with all the noise and tents and orders for fresh poultry.)

They failed. The poles didn't budge.

They looked puzzled. Spit on their hands. Tried again. The poles were stuck fast. They moved the stones around the poles and heaved. Others pushed them aside and tried. The brawniest soldiers were summoned. They pulled so hard they fell down.

The eagles weren't going anywhere.

There was a peculiar noise that spread through the Roman host. Those privileged to hear it remembered it for the rest of their days. It was the inimitable sound of 20,000 humans sucking in breath at the same time. For several seconds, there was, truly, dead silence on that Balkan plain.

Then, from the back rank, a horse laughed. It was more than a whinny: that was a definite horselaugh. It was a kind of snide horselaugh. And it broke the troops.

First, they let out their breath. All at once, with a whooshing sound. Then they shook their heads as they looked at each other. Then they turned back to their leaders on the platform. And they shouted.

'Dira, dira, dira,' they shouted. 'Bad omens!' And they began to fall out of formation. Shouts for order had no effect: they had no intention of going on a suicide mission.

'Get back in line!' yelled Scribonianus. 'We'll try another day! This one must be inauspicious!' But he couldn't be heard above the din. One faction had linked arms and was chanting, 'Hell, no, we won't go!' over and over. From the baggage train came a chorus of something that sounded like, '. . . give peace a chance.' It was maddening.

Soon all was chaos. Horses ran away and had to be chased. Some soldiers were fighting with each other. Others simply ambled into town for a tankard of the local beer and a late breakfast. Around the still-embedded eagles, arguments broke out between those who wanted to keep trying, those who were afraid too much persistence would displease the gods, those who were all for taking axes to the poles and freeing the silver birds perched on top, and those bent on taking those axes away, because angry gods, etc.

It was obvious this army was going nowhere. Word of this got to the docks, and half of the improvised fleet started sailing away. They had freight to haul and fish to deliver.

Scribonianus stared at the ruin of his empire in dismay. In those stuck eagles, he saw failure. He saw his own death. He saw the loss of immortality. For a fleeting moment, he looked as if he were about to cry. But he was a Roman, first, last, and always. He had gambled. He had lost.

He turned on his heel and went back into his tent.

'Grote! Call the others and pack our gear! And stop one of those boats! We leave within the hour! Quickly, before anyone tries to stop us!'

'But where are we going, sir? To Rome?'

'To Hades with Rome! We'll go to Issa!'

In the villa up the hill, Alex, still sporting an eagle feather in his blond hair, poured wine for his co-conspirators. 'Now I call that a job well done.'

'Thank you, oh noble bird,' replied Demetrius. He fingered the set of harness bells he'd claimed as a souvenir of the outing: they were strung on a ribbon embroidered 'VII Claudia'.

Radu sighed happily. The sigh sounded suspiciously like a horse snorting.

. . . his rebellion was put down within five days, since the legions which had changed their allegiance were turned from their purpose by superstitious fear; for when the order was given to march to their new commander, by some providential chance the eagles could not be adorned nor the standards pulled up and moved.

– C. Suetonius Tranquillus, Lives of the Twelve Caesars

DG

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