Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

‘They’ve gone to garrison the River Lippe forts over winter, and the towns.’

‘The towns?’ Titus was as thrown by this as I was myself. Garrisoning a fort was one thing, and their very purpose meant these camps were often situated close to the same strategic resources that encouraged the growth of settlements: ports, rivers, junctions, mines. But it was almost unheard of to garrison the towns themselves, at least with sizeable units of front-line-grade troops.

‘Governor Varus’s idea.’ The soldier shrugged. ‘We want them to be sheep, we got to show we’re the shepherd. That’s what he said.’

‘He’s not done anything like that before,’ Titus replied. There was a question behind the statement.

‘Lads reckon that German talked him into it.’

‘Arminius?’ I asked, unable to help myself.

Titus’s friend nodded. ‘Rumour mill says his people got some kind of feud with another bunch of goat-shaggers, and he’s talked Varus into smashing them up for him.’ He turned his attention back to Titus. ‘I don’t know, mate, I just hope there’s some bloody loot in it. Been a long couple of summers, you know?’

Titus told his friend to find him later for a drink as our under-strength century came to a ragged halt in an open area of camp set aside for our tents.

Pavo, the red crest of his helmet blowing slightly in the evening breeze, could not wait to be rid of us. ‘Section commanders, get your tents up and kit squared away. Nobody leaves the lines. I’m going to get our orders.’

Chickenhead snorted. ‘He didn’t even bother to fall us out.’

‘I’m going,’ Rufus told Titus, and nobody tried to stop him as he slipped away without a further word to visit his family on the camp’s fringe.

I caught Titus’s eye and got the meaning. Back here, within the ramparts of the camp, there was nothing to gain from provoking him except another beating.

‘I’ll get the tent up.’

Pavo returned a few hours later. Possibly, getting his orders had involved wine, a lot of wine, or more than likely he had made a stop at an inn on his way back from headquarters, spending the coins he had extracted from the auxiliary commander in return for the century’s work on the fort’s defences.

His reddened face pushed its way inside our tent, growing ruddier still as he realized that only I and the two young soldiers were present. ‘Where’s the rest of ’em?’ he slurred.

‘Sentry duty, sir,’ I said, to save him face in front of the younger soldiers.

He knew as well as I did that they were away drinking, but he caught on and accepted the rescue. ‘Ah, yes. Yes. You two,’ he sneered at the boy soldiers, ‘fuck off and find me some chicken.’

They got to their feet quickly, reaching for their mail and arms.

‘You don’t need that shit! Just get me chicken!’

They scuttled out, Micon on the heels of Cnaeus, the leader of the pair.

‘And wine!’ the centurion called after them.

I expected him to go then, back to his own tent, but to my surprise he sat down on the bedroll opposite me, observing through eyes that had narrowed into slits. He was more the worse for wear than I’d thought.

‘You all right, sir?’

‘You know you’re the only one who calls me that?’ he answered quickly, the words unexpected. ‘ Sir .’

I didn’t know what to say, and so I kept my mouth shut. More wine than man, he had enough conversation for the both of us.

‘I mean the young ones do, yeah, but they don’t mean fuck all. The salts, though. You’re the only salt who calls me sir.’

So he’d worked that out. Fine. I wasn’t about to help him piece it all together.

‘I’m just older, sir. I’m no more a sweat than those two boys.’

‘Oh, save the bullshit. We’re both outcasts in this century, so let’s talk like fucking men.’

I nodded, but I kept my mouth shut. I had nothing to say to him. Nothing truthful, anyway. Maybe with as much wine in me as he had, things would be different, but I was sober, and I saw an opportunity to take advantage of my commander. ‘You’ve achieved something most soldiers never do, sir. Men are jealous of that.’ I was buttering him up: he was not immune to compliments, but he was bitter.

‘Achieved what? I’ve never even fought in a bloody battle. I know it’s not my fault, I didn’t have any bloody choice about when I was born, and when the legions would take me, but still! Look at that bastard Chickenhead. He looks at me, and he sees a puppy. Why do you think I let him lie on his arse all day? Because if I don’t, he can make trouble for me! The other salts listen to him because he’s been there, and done it. And Titus! Titus…’

He trailed off, and I didn’t push him. I knew what he was: a sour man with lofty ambitions. Doubtless he’d got his position by being a better soldier than his peers. Fitter, harder working, and a better arse-kisser. Such things can take you so far, but that ceiling was low, with eighty men below you, and a fat, corpulent class above, their positions secured by noble birth, and no amount of skill or grovelling could see you reborn.

Pavo had gone quiet, his eyes closed. I hoped he’d fallen asleep, but it seemed as though he was simply taking a moment for contemplation.

‘I need this war. I don’t know if it’s even going to be a war, but I fucking need it. I can’t stay where I am for the rest of my days.’

I nodded at the truth of his words. War took life, but it gave birth to careers. Pavo’s ambitions seemed set to the highest rank of the legions, but he was in competition with dozens of other centurions, most of them his senior in terms of age and experience. To reach the top he needed war, and lots of it – dead men’s sandals and glory. I could see by how much he yearned for it that it was something he had never experienced.

Even a drunk could see the distaste etched on my face. ‘You’ve seen war, haven’t you?’ He smiled. ‘You’re as salty as any of them.’

He thought on this as he held back what I hoped was a belch, but I suspected was vomit. Once gathered, he continued. ‘You know, if you told them, they’d accept you. Why are you hiding it?’

I held my tongue. Pavo sneered, drunk and amused.

‘I have an idea why, but it won’t do either of us any good to say it, so fuck it, hey?’ he slurred. ‘I’m going to need good men.’

The centurion got to his feet. Unsteady feet. He placed a hand on my shoulder, whether to support himself, or me, I didn’t know.

‘Forget who you were, if you need to. But when we do finally get out there, and I’ve got my war, then be who you are.’

He stopped at the tent flap. For a second, the usual harsh snarl was gone. I glimpsed the man, stripped of the ambition.

‘No one should die amongst strangers,’ he told me.

It wasn’t until later, much later, that I understood the words were intended for his own ears.

Cnaeus and Micon returned from their errand. From the look of relief on their faces, Pavo had been happy with what they’d brought him. From their pouts, however, I suspected that the food and drink had been provided from out of their own pockets. No surprise there. That was the way it went in the legions. If these two youngsters could climb to Pavo’s rank, or Titus’s status, then they’d be the ones dispatching boy soldiers to acquire chicken and wine. Until then, they’d have to suck it up.

They did and, run down as they were by the march back from the Lippe, not to mention the constant graft on the section’s behalf, the pair were soon asleep.

I was glad of their slumber, for two reasons.

First, because ever since I had saved his life at the bridge – and I say that as simple fact, not hubris – the boy Cnaeus had been looking at me with something close to reverence. On the times that he’d come close to addressing the matter, I’d given him a look of what I hoped passed for cold-blooded murder, and that had been enough to kill the unwanted conversation in its infancy. Still, the puppy-dog adoration was uncomfortable even if it was given in silence, and so was one reason I was glad the young soldiers were asleep.