Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

Chickenhead’s prodding elbow snapped me from my daze. ‘Come on. We’re being relieved.’

The rampart was complete, the guard units withdrawn behind its defence. We would be rotated every few hours so that all men could escape the elements, if only for a short while. Hot food was the priority over sleep, and in our own crowded tent, Moonface acted as cook, under the direction of his friend Stumps.

‘Crumble in the biscuits, you clumsy bastard! Crumble!’ he chided his apprentice.

We sat naked, the veteran Chickenhead having set the example by stripping off his wet clothes. Only Rufus was absent – gone on the hunt for wine, Titus said. I’d helped dig a pit into the soggy wet floor, and the recessed fire was warming our flesh, as well as our dinner.

‘Just think, you’d have to pay for this in Rome.’ Stumps smiled. ‘Finest bathhouse in all of Germany. How’s Lupus?’

Chickenhead cradled the creature in his hand, attempting to feed it a morsel of dried meat. ‘He’s stopped shivering, at least,’ he answered, clearly concerned. ‘He’s not an outdoor cat,’ the old sweat added with deep affection.

‘I had a cat once.’ Micon spoke up, surprising everyone, a warm smile on his idiot face.

‘Well, thanks for that great story,’ Stumps replied, after no further detail was forthcoming. ‘Since you’ve opened your trap, Homer, why don’t you tell us a few more interesting tales? Got any sisters worth shaggin’? Where are you from, anyway?’

‘Pompeii.’

‘Never been there. What are the women like?’

The young soldier shrugged. ‘They’re all right.’

‘Bollocks.’ Stumps laughed, dragging out the word. ‘The only inside of a cunt you’ve seen was your mum’s. You’re a virgin, aren’t you?’

Micon made no reply. His cheeks flushed red.

‘Don’t worry about it, we’ve all got to start somewhere. When we get back to the Rhine, me and Moon will show you the best whorehouses.’

‘Thanks.’ The boy blushed again.

‘I went to Pompeii once, with my family,’ said Moonface, still stirring the pot. ‘My dad was a carpenter. He got work there building a ship. It was a good summer.’ He smiled, slipping into the pleasant memories. ‘Eight years now since I saw them. They’ll hear about this campaign, and know I was a part of it.’ There was pride in the soldier’s voice.

‘Yeah, they’ll find out when they get a letter to say you’re fertilizing German vegetables,’ Stumps teased with an evil smirk.

‘They’d taste fucking good if they came from me,’ Moonface shot back. ‘Here, you stir this sludge.’

Stumps took the spoon from his friend, and the tent lapsed into silence.

Since reaching the relative safety of the marching camp, Titus had once again retreated into himself. We still didn’t know why he had withdrawn, but his pensive attitude had taken on a hard edge of anger since the discovery of the auxiliaries’ bodies. As Moonface handed the big man a bowl of hot barley, Titus finally drifted back from his silent contemplation.

‘Thanks,’ he said, and then turned his eyes to the two youngest soldiers. ‘You did well today,’ he told Cnaeus, who was still shivering. ‘And you.’ He pointed at Micon. ‘Next time you go wandering off alone, we leave you, understand?’

Micon’s head nodded dutifully, though his face remained the same blank mask as always. Titus seemed about to add something more, but he was stopped by an act so unexpected that, for a moment, every other man in the tent was struck dumb.

Cnaeus began to cry.

It was a whimper at first, as uncontrollable as his shivering. I wondered if he was even aware of it, but then words formed through the gasps and the tears. ‘I want to go home,’ he pleaded to no one in particular.

The other men remained silent. Embarrassed. Stumps concentrated hard on stirring the pot. Moonface moved to put more sticks on the fire. Eventually, Chickenhead placed Lupus into Cnaeus’s lap; the youth seized the cat as if he were a drowning man clutching timber.

‘I want to go home,’ he sobbed into the kitten’s damp fur.

From out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Titus’s considerable bulk stir. The section commander got to his feet, bending beneath the tent’s canvas. He took the few short paces towards Cnaeus, and I expected a brutal blow to fall on the boy as Titus attempted to beat the fear from him.

Instead, he sat beside him.

No words were spoken. The only sound came from the constant drumming of rain against the tent’s canvas, and the mewing of Lupus as he pawed at Cnaeus’s cheek.

The boy soldier sobbed again, but the presence of the gnarled veteran beside him was like a bulwark, and gradually the youngster mastered his emotions. After what seemed like the final snivel, Titus finally deigned to speak.

‘We’re all scared,’ he offered simply.

Cnaeus’s wet eyes fell on his commander with a doubtful expression.

‘We’re all scared,’ Titus insisted in a voice like cold iron, ‘because we’ve all got something to lose. Remember what it is, and kill any fucker who tries to take that from you. Fight like that, and you will go home.’

Cnaeus nodded vigorously, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes. Titus, with the soft gaze of the veterans upon him, removed himself to his position in the tent’s corner and his former reverie.

We’ve all got something to lose. Is that what had pushed the big man into his solitude? What was his to lose?

And what was mine? I was scared – terrified – of dying, but surely all that I had to lose was long gone now, consumed in the fires of rebellion and the bloodshed that had quenched the flames. What kept me fighting? Was I nothing more than an animal, struggling because instinct told me that I must?

No. I knew what it was, though a self-loathing part of myself fought against it as hard as any enemy.

It was hope. It made my throat tighten to even acknowledge its existence, but, deep down, I knew that it was hope as much as fear that had carried me across the continent, pushing me onwards towards Britain: the hope that there I would find a land untouched by Rome. The hope that there I would be beyond the reach of ghosts. The hope that there I would be able to remember who I was, before the blood and the fire.

‘Get some sleep,’ Titus grunted at the section as he rested his scarred skull in the folds of his massive arms.

Without a murmur, six weary soldiers and one kitten obeyed his command.

Our rest in the tent seemed to be over before it began. No sooner had I closed my eyes that I was woken by Chickenhead’s toes pushing into my ribs as the veteran pulled his tunic on. Immediately, I was alarmed that I was being woken because of my sleep terrors.

‘I wasn’t—’

‘No.’ He stopped me, knowing what my question would be. ‘It’s our turn on the rampart.’

As the rain beat against the hide of our tent, I dressed in my own tunic, the cold damp of the material doing nothing to energize me. The other members of the section were equally subdued, conversation non-existent as they donned armour, collected their arms and shuffled like the dead to take their stations on the low rise that enclosed the encampment.

‘This is shit,’ Stumps told the storm-filled night.

With our shields and javelins planted in the ground before us, our silhouettes may have looked like statues from a distance, but up close we swayed in the strong winds as fatigue and boredom chipped away at our resolve. I looked for the moon, but it was hidden by thick cloud. It looked as if tomorrow would bring no respite from the tempest.

‘Felix.’ I heard my name on the wind. ‘Felix.’

It took me a moment to locate the source of the sound. It had come from behind me, and there was just enough light in the night for me to make out the transverse crest of a centurion.