Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

‘You look like you’ve got a few miles on you.’

I smiled. ‘I was married.’

They smiled too, but I could see that, in the depths of their minds, old memories were being dragged to the surface.

‘Well,’ the shorter one concluded with a look towards the whores, ‘I can see why a married man would come here. Drink?’

I took a long, saddened look at my cup, now drained. ‘I need to get back to camp. My centurion, he’s a real bullshitter.’

The veterans smiled their understanding, and I got to my feet. I’d only taken a step when the silver-haired man had his epiphany.

‘Pannonia! That’s where I know you from! You were Eighth Legion!’

‘Not me, brothers.’ I smiled again and turned away, but a hand gripped my shoulder.

‘It’s him!’ the shorter one spat to his friend, anger rising. ‘You piece of shit!’ he snarled at me. ‘You were—’

I didn’t let him finish, smashing my elbow into his mouth. His knees banded like a newborn foal and his friend instinctively caught him as he fell, giving me the chance to bolt for the doorway. I could not be sure if they were alone, and to be exposed would see me die in the most painful way imaginable, so it was without thinking that I pulled the purse from beneath my tunic and cast the coins into the air as I ran, the silver rain bringing excited cheers from soldiers and whores alike. I was instantly pained at the loss, but I hoped that my life was a worthy investment.

I was in the alleyway a second later. A few calls to stop me rose above the cheers but, distracted as they were by the money on the floor, nobody listened. Nor did anyone in the street. The soldiers had come into town to drink and screw – why should they care what went on between others? I resisted the urge to run, knowing that it would draw attention from any policing patrols of the camp guard, and so I was only at the end of the alleyway when the silver-haired soldier stepped into the night.

Shit. His friend was with him, stumbling a little, but otherwise recovered. I went for the first turn I could find and took flight. The hobnails of my sandals sounded like hammers on anvils, but with a head start, and in the tangle of dark streets, they had no hope of finding me.

It didn’t matter.

Somebody knew my secret.

The next day, at dawn, an ill-tempered Pavo called reveille. The other men of the section grumbled, hung-over, but I was anxious to escape the tent, which was thick with the smell of stale wine, and staler farts, and so I was the first into the morning’s wan light.

I had slept fitfully, the adrenaline from my chance meeting taking time to dissipate. Then I had been woken time and again as the men of the section stumbled in. To my relief, they’d drunk enough to pass out quickly; I’d been expecting another showdown with an inebriated Titus. Rufus was the last to arrive, his gentle footsteps padding in shortly before reveille had been called. He was sober, having spent the night with his family.

The century formed up on parade, several soldiers swinging on their feet like corn in the wind. Farts erupted from up and down the lines, and at least one man in the rear rank twisted to vomit on his heels.

‘Glad to see you’re all well rested,’ Pavo snorted through the side of his mouth. He’d passed out earlier than most, and as a consequence he looked one of the more human of the century. He didn’t bring up the fact that men had disobeyed his orders and left their tented quarters. Better, in his mind, to skip over the incident and pretend it had never happened.

‘Now we’re back,’ he continued, ‘we’re getting worked into the fort’s guard schedule. From noon, you’ll split down into sections to provide checkpoints and roving patrols in Minden.’

He saw some of the men smile knowingly to their comrades, and growled, ‘Roving patrols doesn’t mean you do a fucking crawl from one inn to another. Now the army’s moving there’s a lot of people coming in, and a lot going out. Be on the lookout for anything suspicious. Spies, thieves, deserters.’

After ordering the two boy soldiers to clean the equipment of the veterans, Titus and his clique fell with glee back on to their bedrolls. Chickenhead, I now noticed, had never even bothered to rise, Lupus purring contentedly on the ugly man’s chest.

With the youngsters cleaning, I awaited some order of my own from the section commander. Latrine duty, perhaps, or cooking the section’s breakfast. None came, and Titus must have felt my surprised eyes.

‘Get some sleep,’ was all he told me, his voice infuriatingly impartial.

I lay down, expecting some trap, but there was none. Within moments, the big man was snoring along with the rest of them.

Confused by the sudden neutrality towards me, I simply lay on my back, watching the hide of our tent grow lighter as the sun climbed higher.

With armour scrubbed bright by Cnaeus and Micon, Titus led our section into Minden. Pavo had instructed him as to our destination, and we took up position on one of the town’s arteries, our orders to question those coming and going. If necessary we would search their goods and persons.

I was paired with young Micon to search the outgoing, while Cnaeus and Stumps searched the incoming. Titus and the remaining veterans leaned against the wall of a hovel, watching the traffic and the performance of the searchers. I had hoped to question these civilians, perhaps discover what I had been unable to find the previous night, but none spoke Latin, or at least none admitted to as much.

During a quiet spell I noticed that Titus’s group had been joined by two young boys. They were red-haired, and from the way that they shuttled back and forth to the man, it was obvious that these adolescents were Rufus’s children. It was forbidden to marry in the ranks, but many a soldier had an unofficial family that followed with the army’s baggage train. It would be a brave commander who would try to upset the status quo: he’d have a mutiny on his hands if he did so.

The task of searching the outgoing carts was monotonous, but I embraced it. After the shock of being recognized in the inn, I was glad of a task in which I could lose myself. That being said, instinct is a hard beast to tame, and I felt my eyes on stalks whenever a soldier appeared in the periphery of my vision. Should those men come across me I would have no choice but to run, die or, more than likely, both.

Such thoughts in my head, I took a moment to look over my shoulders and assess my surroundings. There, with Titus, was a familiar figure, but not one from which I needed to hide. It was the quartermaster, taller and wider than even Titus, though his bulkier frame was padded out with fat. They seemed to be on cordial enough terms: two men passing the time of day. It was only later, when a cart covered with a hide sacking came towards me, that they interrupted their conversation and approached.

I was just about to pull back the covering when Titus’s hand squeezed me gently by the elbow. ‘This one’s fine. Let her through.’

Low profile that I wanted, I was happy to oblige.

Micon, however, had ears of cloth to match his brain, and tugged back at his own corner of the sheeting before Titus or the quartermaster could stop him.

They’d been buried beneath hay, but the bumping on the road had shaken enough straw free to allow a glimpse of the cart’s contents. Swords. Chain mail. Arrows.

In one smooth movement, Titus was able to pull the covering back into place, while simultaneously delivering a backhand across the startled Micon’s face.

‘What did you see?’ Titus growled into the boy soldier’s ear.

‘No-no-nothing,’ he stammered, and, slow as he was, that was probably true. Titus knew that I was a little quicker with my wits, and his eyes met mine.