Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

‘Release him.’ He spoke so softly that he had to repeat the order.

Segestes’s look could have set the world on fire. He turned that gaze on to his nephew, spat, and then spun on his heel, his men following in his wake.

Unbound, Arminius stood, and I felt his hand squeeze my elbow. His voice was so low that only I could hear. ‘Felix, no matter what, no matter when, you have a friend in me, and a place by my side.’

‘I owed you one, sir.’

‘You owed me two.’ He smiled, leaving me confused, but that was the end of our conversation. Varus embraced Arminius, the governor abandoning dignity, such was his relief at the release of a man he adored.

They walked away together, Varus with an arm over the young prince’s shoulder, the two centuries of soldiers following in their wake. Arminius’s loyal soldiers, battered but buoyed, limped behind with their horses.

I was left, forgotten, my eyes on the back of the enigma. When I rushed to his side, I had told myself that I was repaying a debt – balancing the books – but when he had called himself my friend I had believed him, and treasured the connotation.

I watched him go until he was consumed by the hungry shadows at the far end of the parade square. Slowly, I sank to one knee, breathing deep of the night’s air.

‘Lucky, and heroic.’ It was the standard-bearer, the mouth beneath the shadows pulled up in amusement.

‘Just fucking stupid,’ I groaned.

‘Yes, that too, but lucky beats stupid.’ He offered his hand. I gripped his forearm, and he pulled me to my unsteady feet. ‘Just don’t push it too far.’ He looked towards the shadows. ‘These Germans will be the end of us.’

With that warning in my ears, he took his leave. The next time we would meet, the fur of his bearskin would be matted with blood.

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling, adrenaline I had not even known was there now seeping out of my body. Despite the shaking muscles, I felt a surge of heat and purpose course through my body. I had saved a worthy man’s life.

I did not know that in doing so, I had condemned an army of others to their graves.

I’m sure the average citizen has a romantic notion about how an army looks when it takes the field, its thousands of soldiers moving as one, a horde of individuals fused for a single purpose. After all, this is the image our rulers have pushed since the early days of the Republic, the bombast only growing under the Empire. We see it painted, sculpted, and acted out: the conquering heroes, sandalled legions stamping beneath the eagles.

Perhaps, from a distance, that is how it appears. Or perhaps, if you are a citizen of some other land, it seems more like a venomous, multi-limbed insect inching its way across a landscape, stripping the fields and laying waste to the towns.

Yet this beast is not romantic, or mystical; it is not a single creature, but a cluster of hollow-eyed individuals. Evidence of this humanity grows stronger still during a halt, when the limbs of the insect will be pissing and shitting alongside the trail, or even in place, depending on the degree of discipline on which their commanders insist.

On the move, the sweat-coated soldiers at the head of the column hold a blessed position. They may be the first to walk into any ambush, but that is better than following in their wake. During the dry months, the vanguard’s advance kicks up dust that sinks into the throats, eyes and ears of those who trail them. In winter, the van’s shod feet churn any track into a viscous sludge through which the following soldiers have to slither and stamp, all while carrying a pack made heavier by the rain. The warriors of the rearguard will have the honour of marching through an army’s worth of piss and shit, their open sores and numerous blisters soon rife with painful, pus-weeping infection.

Perhaps, if the dust is spread by the winds, or the soldier can raise his head from out of his exhaustion, then he may glimpse the rest of the army as it crosses some stretch of high ground, but on the whole, all the marching trooper will see is the men to his front and flanks, whether he is part of a group of twenty or twenty thousand. Only the aristocratic officers, and those with the highly dangerous job of cavalry scouts, will have the slightest notion as to the scale of the army. But, for a veteran and salt like Chickenhead, there are ways of making an educated guess.

‘Fifteen thousand,’ he told the section between shallow pants. ‘That scout said we’re about a quarter way from the front, and there’s already a load of shit on the track.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ Stumps agreed with a grimace. ‘Think the scouts have traded in their horses for elephants.’

‘You used that one last summer,’ Chickenhead replied tiredly. ‘You’re boring me now.’ Like all the other men of the section, his voice came from behind a legion-issued red neckerchief, tied about the face to keep out the dust cloud that had risen from the dry summer track.

‘I’m surprised you can remember a year ago, you old shit,’ Stumps countered, but when no reply came from his comrade, the younger veteran turned to Titus, who marched on his shoulder. ‘You reckon he’s right?’

Titus’s mind seemed to be on other matters, his feet moving automatically. Stumps pressed again, and the big man finally slid from his reverie.

‘What?’

‘How many in the army? Chicken reckons fifteen thousand.’

‘What does it matter?’ Titus rumbled, and Stumps clearly decided it was best to let the lump drift back to his own thoughts.

‘How many miles you reckon a soldier marches in his career?’ he asked Chickenhead instead.

‘A lot.’

‘Depends where you’re stationed,’ Moonface suggested. ‘I reckon up here we put in a lot more miles than the legions down south. Comfy life out in the desert.’

‘What the fuck would you know about the desert?’ Titus snarled, catching the conversation.

‘Nothing,’ Moonface admitted reluctantly.

‘Yeah. Nothing. So shut your fucking mouth.’

We tramped on in silence, or at least devoid of conversation. Despite men’s efforts to secure their gear, helmets bounced off shields, scabbards off armour.

‘We sound like the world’s shittest musicians,’ Stumps observed.

I tried to concentrate on the pack in front of me, wanting, like Titus, my mind to rise above the column, for the march had not brought with it the elation I had expected.

That was because, mere hours after the incident on the parade square, I had been sought out in my tent by one of the quartermaster’s minions. I had hoped that with his logistical workload of preparing for the legion to decamp, he would have been unable to call in my debt until we reached our winter quarters. Of course, by then, I planned to have been long gone, using my collection of coins to pay for passage to Britain, and what I hoped would be a new beginning. Instead, I had handed my purse to the ill-tempered loan shark.

‘Dead men don’t pay debts,’ he’d grunted, noticing my appraising eye on the line of sullen solders behind me.

‘You think the Germans will stand and fight, sir?’ I’d asked, appealing to his vanity. As I’d expected, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to display his insight.

‘Stand and fight us ? No, not enough of the tribes making trouble. But these goat-fuckers didn’t bring Drusus and his legions to a standstill by being cowards. They’ll know what these raids of theirs will have set off, whether Varus is a lazy bastard or not, and so they’ll have some surprises for us, I’m tellin’ you. Anyway, I’m taking no chances. You’re two short.’ He snorted this final statement, his birthmarks darkening with anger. After fishing the coins from my pockets, I was near destitute once more.