Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

As the horses came to a stop, the stomp of their hooves echoing in the night, Arminius’s warrior yelled something in German that could only have been a challenge. The chieftain’s face showed his distaste, but he held his tongue, as well as his ground. Signalling with the slightest movement of his head, the hood was pulled from the captive, and I had my first look at the hostage.

Arminius, of course. I had known it the second his soldiers appeared. Nothing else could have caused the angst they displayed so openly.

The prince’s face was bloodied, and yet he smiled. He smiled at his captors and, turning his head, he smiled at his six loyal men on horseback.

And they charged.

No weapons were drawn, and I expect they hoped to use the bulk of their horses to press through the body of men, grab Arminius, and ride to safety.

But the chieftain’s men were handpicked – the best warriors his tribe had to offer. With no orders needing to be given, they pulled into a tight knot of shields, Arminius and the chieftain at its centre, and, seeing the solid object ahead of them, the cavalry mounts pulled up, turning and rearing.

Immediately the hostage-takers burst from behind their impromptu shield wall, taking hold of reins and riders. One man was felled by a flailing hoof, but the others had momentum on their side, and in seconds, three of Arminius’s men were out of the saddle.

The rescue effort had ended in failure, to the dismay of the prince’s bodyguard. From their howls of rage and torment, I could only conclude that they did not expect their leader to survive the night.

I should have stayed where I was. I should have left the German bastards to it.

But loyalty is a potent drug, and I was already running.

I ran into the rear of the melee. The pathetic cavalry charge had come from the opposite side of the square, and it was German backs I faced, not shields. Even the chieftain was struggling to pull the remaining troopers from their saddles, and so there was only one man between myself and Arminius.

As I said, these Germans were seasoned warriors, and the principle of all-round defence was one that they knew well. Not allowing himself to be sucked into the scrap ahead of him, one warrior had kept his eyes on the shadows to their rear. He saw me coming from thirty paces away, which was twenty-nine more than he needed to decide how to kill me.

But he couldn’t kill me. The violence in the square was no more bloody than a wrestling match, though I sensed that life was somehow at stake. Obviously under orders from the chieftain, the men were at pains to subdue their fellow countrymen with fists and elbows only, and so there was no way that the solitary German warrior could gut a Roman in the centre of the army’s fort.

It was this indecision that let me beat him. The man finally attempted to tackle me as I was a pace away, but I’d expected his dive, and feinted to the side, pushing down on to his back so that his momentum ploughed his face into the dirt. With that simple move, and as the last of the cavalrymen were pulled to the ground and beaten, I was at Arminius’s side.

He recognized me at once, but the smile slid from his face as I drew my dagger and held it to his throat.

Instantly, the square was still.

‘What are you doing, Felix?’ The words were as cool as a winter stream, his intense eyes betraying not a flicker of fear.

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure myself. Plans formed in a split second of adrenaline and emotion don’t usually hold up well to scrutiny.

Seeing the blade pressing into the skin of their hostage and prince, the Germans stilled, breathing heavily.

The chieftain, bushy eyebrows creased in puzzlement, repeated Arminius’s query in heavily accented Latin. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Back off, or I’ll kill him.’

‘You’ll kill him?’ There was an edge of amusement in his voice.

Perhaps I’d miscalculated. The big man seemed to be considering the proposal with some seriousness.

‘Maybe it would be better if you did,’ he finally mused aloud, confirming my fears.

‘Uncle,’ Arminius said, ignoring my insistence that he shut up. ‘You’re wrong about this.’

‘Don’t talk to me, whelp,’ the chieftain spat, face quickly creasing with anger. ‘It’s only the feelings of my idiot girl that has kept your head on your shoulders.’

So this was the uncle – father of Arminius’s eloped bride, and chieftain of the Cherusci tribe, to which Arminius belonged. There could be only one reason that the chieftain had put Arminius in chains. One reason he had brought him here, and one person he had come to see. Realizing who, and why, my world felt as if it were about to fall out of my stomach.

Why had I done this? After every poisonous decision, every painful mile, I would die screaming on a crucifix. Why?

But I knew the answer well enough.

Loyalty. As deadly as love.

The man I feared arrived moments later. I feared him not because of his prowess as a warrior – he had none – but because his power was immeasurable. Since donning the uniform of the legions, my life had been placed indirectly in his hands. Now, it was hanging from his manicured fingernails.

‘Governor Varus,’ the chieftain greeted him.

Varus wore a simple toga, the expensive silk pulled tight around his spreading waist. His face was neutral: he was a politician, after all. The armoured troops that flanked him were enough of a reminder of his power.

‘Segestes.’ He spoke, tiredly, to the chieftain. Then he greeted the hostage: ‘Arminius.’ There was no mirth in his voice.

I braced myself.

‘And who are you, soldier?’

I attempted to pull myself to attention, while continuing to keep the dagger’s point at the prince’s throat. What a sight I must have made.

‘Beg to report, sir, Legionary Felix, Second Century, Second Cohort of the Seventeenth Legion, sir.’

‘And my friend, governor,’ Arminius added.

‘Your friend?’ Varus asked, clearly believing that the shock of arrest had addled the mind of his German protégé. ‘So what is he doing?’

‘Saving my life,’ Arminius told him with a smile that threatened to light up the parade square. ‘I think you can lower the blade now, Felix,’ he suggested.

‘Yes, yes,’ Varus insisted. ‘Put the blade away, soldier. There will be no bloodshed, not here. Not against this man.’ These words were directed at Segestes, but the chieftain was not about to back down.

‘Varus, this man is plotting against you! He is a snake, a treacherous snake. You must imprison him before he leads you to ruin!’

The governor winced at being addressed by his name, but let it slide, maintaining his composure and using his most calm yet convincing tone. Politics, always politics.

‘My friend, this is a member of your own family we are talking about—’

‘He stopped being family when he became a treacherous shit!’

‘—and I understand that you are justly offended by his actions with your daughter, but Arminius is a loyal officer.’

‘He’s loyal only to himself!’ Segestes thundered, clearly struggling to stop himself attacking his nephew. ‘By the gods, governor, if you won’t imprison him alone, then take me too. Put chains on every noble in my tribe, and those that claim fealty. I will gladly suffer the dungeons if it stops this worm from leading the army to ruin, and bringing bloodshed to my lands.’

There was something about the man’s words, the sheer conviction, that stopped my heart. I could see that Varus felt it too, and the governor had to look into Arminius’s eyes for reassurance that the accusations were false, despite their venom. I looked at those eyes myself, and they were the eyes of a man at peace with the world. A man of his word. When I saw that, I believed again, and my heart resumed its thumping within my chest. Varus saw the same. He almost sagged with relief.