Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

Rufus ghosted his way down the bank, and to my side. His face was drained to the colour of marble.

Titus came up to us. A jut of his jaw asked the obvious. Rufus turned his thumb downwards, indicating that there were enemy warriors ahead. Then he opened and closed his palm twice – ten of them.

‘They have wounded?’ Titus whispered.

Rufus shook his head. The word dropped heavily from his trembling lips. ‘Prisoner.’

As if waiting for the moment, another wail pierced the trees. There was a word within the pain.

‘An auxiliary from Gaul,’ Rufus said, his eyes closed tightly. ‘He’s calling for his mother.’

There was nothing to say – but we had to look.

‘With me,’ Titus mouthed silently.

Leaving Rufus behind, we slithered up the dirt bank like adders. At the crest, I exhaled slowly. I did not want to gasp when I saw the inevitable.

He was naked, tied to a tree, half hidden by the shape of laughing German warriors. His skin was pale from shock, striped red with blood. His chin hung down on a heaving chest.

I wanted to puke. Instead, I watched as a boyish German stepped forward, a dagger in his hand. The screams came as the youngster sliced off the auxiliary’s ear.

‘Initiation,’ I heard Titus breathe, as the trembling young man passed the blade to another barefaced youth.

‘We have to do something,’ I muttered.

Another slice of the dagger. Another scream.

Titus gestured at the number of the enemy. ‘Twelve against eight.’

‘Four of them are boys,’ I protested, straining to be quiet.

‘So are two of ours. And Stumps is injured.’

The scream was weaker this time.

‘He’s dying,’ I whispered to the dirt.

‘He’s already dead,’ Titus said. The words were hard, but not cold. His eyes told me that he burned to save the man as much as I did, but he was responsible for the lives of his section – his friends. I realized then that he would carry this image to his death. As leader, the decision to act or not was his. So was the burden of guilt that came with it.

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ I murmured, hoping to relieve some of it.

Titus said nothing. His eyes bore into German backs.

It took another five minutes, six cuts and four screams for the Gallic auxiliary to die. As the man’s life left him, so did the Germans’ enjoyment. At an order from their leader, the band of warriors began to pick up their weapons – but not their equipment.

‘They’re going out to fight,’ Titus whispered. ‘They’re leaving their kit behind.’

He was right. The enemy melted away into the forest, leaving two of the young boys behind.

I looked from them to Titus. A sick smile stretched across his skin.

He held an open palm down towards the dirt – I was to remain where I was. Titus then inched down the bank, and to the section. After a few moments when he must have been briefing the others, I heard the sound of the men moving off through the undergrowth.

Titus reappeared on my shoulder. There was silence. The two German boys sat bored on the equipment. One of them threw stones at the body, which hung limp in its bonds. The missiles made dull thumps as they hit the cooling flesh.

Eventually, Titus spoke. ‘Let’s go,’ was all he said, standing up.

Through practice and second nature, his footfalls on the forest floor were muted, but the big man made no effort at concealment. I joined on his shoulder, guessing at his plan.

We were only twenty paces away when one of the boys chanced to look in our direction. His panicked scream froze in his throat as Titus waved a greeting.

‘Hello, boys.’

They ran.

We walked.

‘Let’s see what we’ve got,’ said Titus as he ripped open the first of the German campaign packs. These were blankets, folded to make a pocket, and tied to staffs with leather string.

I had no eyes for it myself. I was looking at the corpse of the auxiliary. His body was a canvas of cuts and stabs. His ears and his nose were gone. His eyeballs lay at his feet.

‘Don’t look at him,’ Titus told me, biting into a mouthful of stale German bread. ‘No good will come of it. This bread’s shit,’ he added, spitting. ‘Fucking goat-shaggers.’

I turned away from the body. The rest of the section were appearing through the trees. One of the German boys was with them, gagged, being shunted forward by Moonface like a sheep.

Titus smiled. ‘Hello again.’

Moonface kicked the feet from out beneath the lad. He fell face first into the dirt, head bouncing. There was no need to ask what had happened to the second youth – Moonface’s blade dripped blood.

No one made any comment; they were looking at the body. Cnaeus sat down heavily.

‘Anything in the packs?’ Stumps asked Titus.

‘Enough food for a few days. Help yourselves. Bread’s shit, though.’

‘What about him?’ Moonface asked, driving a kick into the German boy’s back.

‘Take his gag off.’

Moonface obliged, the point of his dagger pressing into the side of the boy’s throat. He stayed silent.

‘Speak Latin?’ Titus asked, tearing off a chunk of bread.

Nothing. Moonface pressed down with the blade.

‘Little,’ the boy conceded. He was perhaps sixteen, and young enough to have grown up under Roman influence. Latin was the language of trade, so even those who despised Rome were keen to learn it.

His hand full of bread, Titus gestured towards the dead Roman auxiliary. Rufus and Chickenhead were busying themselves with removing him from the tree. They needed to find dignity in death.

‘The others,’ the boy protested, looking at the kit he had been assigned to protect.

‘Was it?’ Rufus asked hopefully.

Titus shook his head. ‘I saw him, the little cunt.’ His voice was as calm as a dead sea. ‘I saw him,’ he repeated quietly.

Chickenhead pulled a blanket across the body. All was still and silent. I saw Titus look from the covered dead to Cnaeus; the boy’s head was between his legs, shoulders shaking with shock. Then Titus looked at the German soldier. He was no older than Cnaeus. The boys were tw0 sides of the same coin.

Titus got to his feet. The bread dropped to the dirt. ‘Tie him to the tree,’ he said to no one in particular.

Moonface fell hungrily on to the task. ‘Help me,’ he said to Micon, and the young soldier did.

The German boy resisted, but Moonface drove his fist into his face. As blood poured across the German’s chin, he was tied in the auxiliary’s place.

‘On your feet,’ Titus growled, tapping Cnaeus hard on the shoulder with the flat of his blade. ‘On your fucking feet,’ he said again.

Knees shaking, the soldier obeyed.

Titus shoved the blade into his hand. ‘Cut off his ears,’ he said plainly. Beside the terrified German, Moonface laughed with glee.

‘Titus.’ It was Rufus speaking, with friendly warning. ‘Titus,’ he tried again.

‘Cut. Off. His. Fucking. Ears,’ Titus snarled.

Cneaus staggered towards the tree. ‘I can’t,’ he mumbled.

‘Do it, you pussy,’ Moonface goaded him.

‘His ears, or yours,’ Titus warned the boy, seeing him hesitate; his voice was like the thud of a battering ram against a city’s gates. ‘This is war, lad, not some fucking parade. You will be a killer, you will toughen up, or you will be a rotting fucking corpse, do you understand that?’

I watched, paralysed. I did not want to see the German boy tortured, and yet… Titus was right. This was a war. If Cnaeus were to live, he had to become a warrior. He had to become cold. He had to become a machine that only acted, and never thought.

Thoughts of Arminius pushed their way into my mind. I wished that he were here, certain that he would somehow find a balance. A way to save life, without taking it.