Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

Yes, I’d seen worse places to die, but this manner would take some beating, and the sight of slippery innards and torn muscles sent my vision reeling. I puked, but only a handful of half-digested berries fell pathetically on to the forest floor.

I looked again at the men on the dirt, seeing faces twisted by pain and indignity. How had I not heard their screams?

And how had I not heard the hoof beats?

They were nearly upon me. I looked towards the far end of the grove, seeing flashes between the trees of horses and armour.

Shit. Roman cavalry.

I turned and cursed. My line of retreat was cut off. I saw them coming through the trees now, a skirmish line of infantry soldiers. They hadn’t seen me, eyes lowered and scanning the undergrowth ahead of them. They were the beaters, but their quarry was long gone, and so only I would be flushed on to the grateful spears of the cavalry.

I looked at the circle of bodies. I knew what I had to do, and yet I hesitated, even as I began to hear the Latin voices of the soldiers calling to one another.

‘Stay in extended line! Put a javelin through that bush! Scan the treetops!’

No, they would not miss me. I had no choice.

I knelt beside one of the staked men. He was in his late forties, probably close to the end of his enlistment; his lips were torn open where his own teeth had gnashed in agony. This close, I noticed the insects crawling over his exposed organs, and the deep mine of his emptied stomach.

I plunged my hand within, finding the liver. My knife was tiny, a couple of inches only, and blunt. Blunt because it had served me well. It did not fail me now, on this last task. The liver came free. I drove the knife inside the man and left it there, and then I slid into the undergrowth.

My hiding place was a thick tangle of thorns, and they suited my purpose. I pulled off what was left of my tunic, pushing it beneath roots and soil. I turned this way and that, feeling the barbs prick and tear at my skin. The first few drops of blood formed my mask, and as the blood ran freely, a memory came with it; I pictured sun-drenched hillsides above a pale blue sea, my limbs spotted with blood as I pushed through the snagging bushes, the baying of dogs on the wind.

The barbs dug deeper.

I stilled when I saw the two men enter the grove. From living on the frontier of Rome’s Empire I recognized the thick array of decorations and ornaments on the man’s shield: he was a prefect, the third-highest position in the legion, and the only one that could be reached by a man not born to the senatorial upper class. He must have served upwards of thirty years on Rome’s front lines, for he was perhaps fifty years of age, and he’d even come to resemble a legionary’s shield: solid, a little worn at the edges, with the slightest of bulges along the midline. Even the shield’s iron boss was a reflection of the officer’s bulbous nose.

But it was the man with him who held my attention. Though half the age of the Roman, the cavalry officer led the way, power and authority coming off him in waves. Only those born into nobility carried themselves with such assurance. Yet the man was tall, with blond hair to his shoulders. German nobility, then, from a client kingdom of the Empire.

I watched him as he studied the cages, and their occupants. I saw a smirk appear on his lips, though he did well to hide it from his companion. He pointed out the leather belts, coming to the same conclusion as I had done myself.

I willed myself to be still, patient, and listen. I opened my mouth, mastered my breathing, and blocked out the background noise of troops rustling in the undergrowth.

‘He’s a soldier, but he’s not one of mine.’ The veteran shrugged. ‘All my work parties are accounted for. Detachment from one of the forts on the Rhine, maybe?’

‘Only twelve of them?’ the tall German posed.

‘Maybe they’re the First Legion. Thick as pig shit, that lot. Sir,’ he added, before seeming to address the manner of the men’s deaths. ‘Six in the cages, six with their guts out.’

There was a question behind the statement, and the cavalry officer answered it. ‘I can’t tell you what significance that holds, I’m afraid. Maybe none.’ He shrugged. ‘What I can tell you, Caeonius – and you can take these words to the governor yourself – is that I shall put my best men and trackers on finding the savages who did this. Judging by the state of the bodies, and the warmth in the timber, I don’t think they can be more than a day ahead, if that.’

The prefect – Caeonius, the German had called him – nodded vigorously, partly in agreement, but more so in anticipation of retribution.

Following hundreds of years of conquest, all the world knew that the Romans had an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. I knew that the wrath of Rome would come to these forests with more certainty than the decay of autumn.

‘I’ll get the men to bury the bodies, sir.’ The old soldier offered his junior a departing salute, but paused on his heel at the unexpected reply.

‘Don’t,’ the cavalry officer stated simply.

I could see Caeonius politely rephrasing the words that he’d caught on his lips as the German knelt beside one of the torched cages. He motioned that the Roman do the same; joints clicked as the gruff veteran conceded.

‘Here.’ The nobleman gestured below the rim of the cage. ‘There’s a wedge of wood held in place by the frame. Once the frame moves, this rope here’ – he pointed to an intertwined length of vine – ‘will bring down deadfall on whoever moves it.’

‘Deadfall, sir?’ Caeonius asked as the cavalry officer scanned the canopy above.

‘There.’ He pointed, without triumph. Above them, a heavy branch stood at an unnatural angle from the others. I’d spotted it myself, and if the German was also looking for such traps, then perhaps we did have something in common – a shared heritage of dirty warfare. ‘From that height, you’re dead if it comes down on top of you,’ he added.

‘Is nothing sacred?’ the veteran grumbled, doubtless yearning for the days of shield on shield. Ironic that he stood on ground revered by those who were indigenous to these lands, though Romans were known for their destruction of cultures, not their embracing. ‘Thank you, sir,’ the prefect eventually added, obviously meaning it. ‘I’ll have slaves move the bodies.’

They were at the staked soldiers now, a mere ten paces from my refuge. Behind me, I could hear the line of legionaries moving slowly, but coming closer. So close to the grove, they would not expect to find anyone, now, but how could they miss me?

It was time.

I stood.

‘You.’ I addressed the two officers, lifting a legionary’s short sword in my shaking hand. The shake came from nerves, but made me look like a man on the edge of sanity.

The two officers turned, the Roman reaching for his own sword, but the German waved him down with an open palm. The noble’s face was at first astonished, but the open mouth slowly twisted into a wry smile, as if he were the only man privy to the Empire’s greatest joke.

‘You,’ I repeated, my voice unsteady. It was the first time I’d had cause to use it in weeks.

I saw them looking at me, marvelling at my naked body. I had discarded my tunic, and the only thing covering my skin was a sheen of deep, red blood. I had bitten into the liver, gagging on the cold flesh, and used the organ as a leaking sponge to turn myself from decrepit beggar into a figure of nightmares.

‘You.’ I spoke a final time, pointing the sword at the German and blinking blood from my eyes. ‘Who are you?’ I faltered.

He raised his hands, slowly, palms open, and spoke in a voice that was both commanding and friendly. If he saw a ghost, rather than a man, he betrayed no sign of it. ‘I am Arminius. I am commander of a cohort of Roman auxiliary soldiers, Cheruscan cavalry, to whom I am also their prince. I am German-born, but a citizen of Rome. Who, my friend, are you?’