Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

The army had broken camp the next morning. After a summer of inactivity, it was a blizzard of commotion, doubtless due to Varus’s eagerness to be on the road before Arminius and his uncle could resume their family feud. Word of the night’s stand-off had already begun to filter through the tented lines, but my century remained ignorant of my own involvement, and doubtless that was for the best, as Titus was already irritable. The other men of the section had no idea why, and even Rufus gave his close friend a wide berth, organizing the section’s decampment himself while Titus sat alone, digging his dagger into the earth in aggressive contemplation.

With the tents and stores packed on to mules, Pavo marched the century out to a wide field to join the cohort. From there we joined the remainder of the legion, and even with the discipline and organization of the army, it was still a stop-start affair, the sun high in the sky by the time the host finally marched away from the hovels of Minden. Doubtless its citizens would be glad to see the backs of the drunken, sex-crazed soldiers, while at the same time missing the business and the coins they had brought in the wake of their excess.

For my own part, I had waited for this moment to break camp since fate had shoved me into the legion’s ranks – it was my opportunity to move closer to the coast, and Britain beyond it – but my near-empty purse was a problem, and after hours of thought, I had come to a troubling conclusion: I could desert with next to nothing and hope for the best, or I could steal from the very men I was beginning to see, despite my best efforts, as comrades.

I didn’t like the choice that swam inside my head, and so I searched for some distraction by breaking the silence that had become expected of me. ‘It’s seventeen thousand.’ I spoke loud enough for the rank ahead to hear me over the din of the march. ‘Seventeen thousand troops, and about three thousand civvies in the baggage train.’

Stumps twisted to look over his shoulder. He was not overly fond of me, taking his lead from Titus, but he was also bored, and as desperate for conversation as I was. I would have to do. ‘And you know that because…?’

‘Saw the lists in the quartermaster’s,’ I lied, not wanting to give away that the information had come, following Arminius’s release, from the standard-bearer at the eagles, or my reasons for being there.

Stumps nodded at this, as if it only confirmed what he already knew of our strength. ‘He did you a favour, I reckon,’ he shouted back to me.

‘Who? The QM? How’s that?’

‘We got a long march. You wouldn’t have wanted those coins weighing you down!’ He laughed, and I could imagine the sly smile beneath the red cloth. ‘Hey, don’t look so upset!’ he went on. ‘Only another four months till the next payday!’ Stumps cackled at his own barb, doubtless hoping I would reply. ‘Where are you from, anyway?’ he asked when I held my tongue.

‘I don’t know,’ I lied.

‘You don’t know, eh? Well, you don’t sound Italian, and you don’t have ginger pubes like Rufus, so you’re not from Gaul. Can you really not remember?’ he pushed.

‘Nothing before they found me in the grove,’ I lied again.

He thought on that for a moment.

‘I saw a bloke go mad once.’

‘Who?’ Moonface asked.

‘Not in the legions,’ Stumps told me. ‘When I was a kid. My neighbour found out his wife had been fucking his brother. Killed them both, and the two kids. When the smell got bad enough they found them in the house. The guy was still there, living in his own shit, talking over and over about how he was sent by the gods to do it.’

‘Maybe he was.’ Moonface, a religious man, shrugged. ‘She was fucking her brother.’

‘Her brother in-law,’ Stumps corrected.

‘Still.’

‘Well, I think he was just plain mad. Like this one,’ he concluded, with a bob of his head towards me. Then the man turned his eyes to the front, our conversation over.

If only the march had been so short.

It was sixteen miles of dusty, shoulder-numbing foot-slogging. With an army so large, any delay or halt towards the head of the column had a rippling effect along the body, so it was impossible to establish the usual pacing of four miles an hour, with regular stops to piss and take on a mouthful of water or wine. Instead, men took the chance when they could, though none but the most desperate wanted to leave the column to shit, aware that the marching beast could lurch back into motion at any minute. Like many others, I used the unexplained pauses to lean forward with my hands on my knees, taking the pressure from my shoulders and allowing the blood to move freely. It was a veteran’s trick, taking away the time-costly motion of stripping kit to achieve the same effect, and Micon and Cnaeus were soon copying the older soldiers.

Our track that day had taken us north through flat lands and open pastures, and so it would have been a simple task for the pioneers and surveyors at the head of the column to find a suitable location for that night’s marching camp. When we arrived, the advanced party of engineers had already laid out the markers that would denote the placement of each century – the legion’s tented layout would be exactly as it had been at Minden, or any other station in the Empire.

‘I hope to bloody Jupiter, and whatever local god wants to listen, that it’s not us who has to build the rampart,’ Stumps groaned, referring to the earthen defences that would have to be erected about the camp’s entire perimeter.

Perhaps it was the Germanic deities who granted his wish, as Pavo informed us that our century would form part of the half of the army to stand guard in full battle dress, while the second half completed construction of the rampart and tents.

‘Better off if we’d done the diggin’ tonight,’ Chickenhead told the section. ‘It’ll be our turn tomorrow, now, and you’re always stiffer on the second day.’

‘You remember what stiff is, old ’un?’ Stumps grinned, grabbing at his crotch, but, drained from the day’s march, no one rose to the horseplay.

The section formed into a single rank, looking out over the peaceful German countryside. It was late evening, the sun still bright and the air warm. A bead of sweat trickled down alongside the cheek-plate of my helmet, and I pushed a finger inside to wipe it.

‘So you’re human after all, eh?’ The rare words came from Rufus, a wistful smile on his ruddy face.

‘I’m human,’ I replied cautiously, unsure why he had broken tradition and addressed me; the red-haired Gaul usually seemed to place a high price on words with even his closest companions. Perhaps he was seeking distraction from the thought of parting with his family, as they, like most of the army’s followers, would journey to the Rhine via the River Lippe and its string of Roman-occupied forts.

He took my measure for a moment longer; then he turned his gaze to the southern end of the growing encampment. I followed his interested eyes.

There was a troop of cavalry approaching, moving in stops and starts, seemingly addressing the work parties of men who had stripped off their armour and substituted javelins for picks.

‘Some bloody inbred officers, inspecting the work and inspiring the troops,’ Stumps surmised sarcastically.

‘No.’ Chickenhead shook his head, appraising with a salt’s eye. ‘The gentry are built like stalks. Those are big men. German auxiliaries.’

‘Bollocks,’ Stumps retorted. ‘Why’d they be checking the defences? Coin says you’re full of shit.’

Chickenhead assented with a nod, the sallow skin of his neck flapping with the vigour of the motion.

‘Bollocks,’ Stumps said again, a few minutes later, this time because the riders were clearly in sight, and clearly German. They stopped at the leftmost section of our century, and I saw a finger point in our direction. The cavalry moved towards us, but it took me a moment to recognize their leader, his face cast into shadow beneath his helmet.