Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

It was Berengar, Arminius’s bodyguard. ‘Felix,’ he greeted me, chewing over his Latin.

‘He’s bloody famous with the goat-fuckers, this one,’ I heard Stumps whisper over my shoulder. Fortunately, the words were missed by the German, who outweighed even Titus.

Berengar’s eyes sought out our own giant now, figuring Titus as the section commander, and addressed him: ‘Orders from the prince. I talk to this one.’ And, without waiting for a reply, he tugged on his horse’s reins so that the beast walked away from our lines.

I turned to Titus.

‘Go,’ he grunted with remarkably little interest. Whatever was on his mind was clearly bothering him deeply, but that was a puzzle for another time.

I left the line, joining Berengar beyond hearing of the Roman troops. The German swung down from his saddle, the speed of the movement rendering me defenceless against his surprise attack.

He embraced me, and the air left my lungs in a cough. When he finally stood back, I saw that his eyes were wet.

‘Thank you,’ he told me, before deciding that his attempt at Latin had not done justice to the meaning of the words. ‘Thank you,’ he stressed again.

I was too taken aback to speak. Putting a paw-like hand on my shoulder, Berengar took it as an invitation to continue.

‘Arminius is a father to me, but also a brother, a son and a friend. You understand?’ He gestured to the cavalry troopers behind him. ‘To all of these men. You saved his life. You are also, now, my brother.’

I could feel that the words were genuine, and heartfelt. Exactly the kind of words that made me so uncomfortable that my skin burned and itched with anxiety. ‘Where is he now?’ I asked, desperate to avoid more gushing adoration.

‘He rides to the tribe,’ Berengar answered, after considering his words. ‘He gathers the warriors, and then he will come back. Join the army.’

‘How many warriors?’

‘Enough,’ he answered, with a shrug.

‘And you?’

‘We stay. Varus needs guides. He needs German help, but he does not like to ask.’

‘But he likes Arminius.’

‘As a son,’ Berengar agreed.

‘Will there be battle?’ I asked finally.

The big German seemed to weigh the question, and his answer. He even looked up at the clouds, as if attempting to divine the weather.

‘Arminius is a son to Varus,’ was his final answer, before pulling me into another embrace. ‘You have a good friend in him, and a brother in me. Remember this.’

With those words hot in my ears, Berengar pulled himself into the saddle and led his troopers into a trot northwards.

I couldn’t understand why his words had left my stomach sour and churning. Like the droplets of blood at the bridge, some visceral reaction had been caused by a reason I could not fathom. My head began to throb, my heart thumped, and I knew that on this march towards uncertainty, I could at least be confident of one thing: that despite the sweat and toil of this day, I suddenly dreaded the prospect of sleep.

I knew that the nightmare was coming.

‘You’re awake.’ Chickenhead greeted me in his matter-of-fact tones, his pinched face and gizzard emerging from the section’s tent flap. It was before dawn, and my eyes, red-rimmed with fatigue, would still be hidden from him by the fading darkness.

‘I am,’ I replied simply.

The veteran lowered himself on to the ground beside me, rubbing at the toes of his bare feet. ‘You can’t keep that up forever,’ he said, after working his way from big toe to small.

‘No,’ I answered, before deciding that I owed him more. ‘What’s in that?’

I was referring to a small clay pot, from which he now removed a cork-stop. The veteran poured some of the liquid on to his hands, and began to massage it into the cracking skin of his feet.

‘Toughens the skin up. We’ve been sitting around too much this summer. Getting soft, every which way.’

‘It stinks of piss,’ I grunted, wafting the air.

‘I think that’s an ingredient, yes. Wine, piss, who knows?’ He shrugged, unconcerned. ‘If a bit of piss on my feet stops them going raw with blisters, then I’m all for it. You want some?’ he asked, holding the foul-smelling pot out to me.

I declined, but not out of any sensibility. A year’s solitary march across the continent had given the skin of my feet an almost armour-like thickness. Chickenhead had noticed.

‘You came a long way,’ he offered without accusation. ‘Further than the forts on the Rhine.’

‘Maybe I was recruited in Italy,’ I answered, willing to play the game, if only because the alternative, sleep, was worse.

‘Maybe.’ The veteran smiled, and I saw his few remaining teeth glinting in the gloom. ‘If you were Italian…’

We sat in silence as he finished applying the ointment. Soldiers tried all kinds of potions, some created by their own hands, others bought from the sellers that dogged an army. Most were useless, but a salt like Chickenhead was experienced enough to sniff out – literally – the good from the bad.

‘You sure?’ he asked, holding out the pot a final time. I shook my head, and he replaced the stopper. Perhaps sensing that the foul odour had dispersed, Lupus the kitten now pushed his way from under the canvas and crawled on to Chickenhead’s lap.

‘Good morning, sir.’ The veteran greeted his companion with deep affection, stroking him as he looked up at the skies. ‘Shit,’ he groaned, snapping back to his more usual sullen self. ‘I thought it was a bit dark for this time of the morning.’

I nodded. The clouds had grown thicker under the moon’s watch, low and menacing. ‘Think it’ll break today?’ I asked him.

‘Tomorrow, latest.’ He shrugged. ‘Bollocks.’

We sat in silence then. Slowly the camp began to come alive. A short time before dawn, trumpets called reveille, and men stumbled out of canvas to begin the task of stripping down the tents. Work parties were assigned to break apart the rampart, the added labour intended to ensure that we did not hand our enemy a defensive position that we might some day have to assault. Our section was assigned to this task.

‘Better to sweat now than bleed later.’ Moonface offered the mantra as he swung his pick into the turf.

‘Or just don’t build the bloody thing in the first place,’ Stumps countered, arching his back to ease the stiffness. ‘Since when do they attack our marching camps, anyway?’

‘That’s because we build these, idiot,’ Moonface spat, shaking his head. ‘Discipline, Stumps. It’s what separates us from the barbarians. Maybe you’d be happier with them?’

‘Maybe I would,’ he mused, breaking again from his labour. ‘But no,’ the veteran decided, gesturing dramatically at his features. ‘It would be a crime to cover this with a beard.’

Moonface showed what he thought of that statement by throwing a sod of turf into his friend’s face.

‘So who are the barbarians, Moon?’ Rufus asked, his brow creased a little in irritation.

‘You know who I mean.’

‘Oh. Me?’ the son of Gaul pushed.

‘Of course not. You’re a Roman citizen.’

‘My father, then? My mother? What about my grandparents?’ Rufus pushed. ‘Two of my grandfather’s brothers died in Caesar’s Gallic wars, and it wasn’t in this uniform.’

Moonface saw the offence he had caused to his comrade. He made the correct decision, and kept his mouth shut.

‘Everyone is a fucking barbarian to someone,’ Rufus concluded, turning back to his labour. ‘And the ones who don’t recognize that, and love the smell of their own shit, are the ones who are buried in it.’

Once the rampart was destroyed and the baggage loaded, the work parties donned armour and fell into formation with the half of the army that had been providing guard. Slowly and methodically, the force marched from the campsite, leaving only overturned soil in its wake.