Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

‘What are they afraid of?’ I blurted.

‘What we’re all afraid of,’ Caeonius answered without breaking stride, his weathered face grinning as he delivered his verdict. ‘Death.’

I must have looked like a drunk as I struggled to make my way back to the lines of my century, my sandals slipping in mud, head beating like the drum of a slave ship, muscles aching and ablaze. The storm still raged, the gusts threatening to topple me into the muck, but at least the slapping rain was a cold comfort against my skin.

Finally I reached Pavo’s tent. I did not stand on ceremony or rank, and threw back the canvas flap.

‘Shit,’ the centurion said as I stumbled within and sank to one knee. He was quick to his feet. Having pulled the canvas tightly shut against the tempest, he stood over me, his eyes narrow and calculating. ‘This wasn’t about me, was it?’ he asked cautiously, as if I carried the plague.

‘No.’

‘Then what?’ He gestured that I should sit on his bedroll, but offered no assistance. I grunted as I sat back, my head resting on the tent’s hide walls.

‘The grove,’ I told him. ‘They thought I was a spy.’

‘Are you?’ he asked, candid now. After what we had discussed previously in this tent, there was little need for guile.

‘No.’

Pavo grunted, as if my near torture and death were of little consequence. He had his own plans, plans which I had helped to engineer, and they had come unravelled owing to my arrest.

‘We’ve missed our chance with the legion commander,’ he informed me as he drank from a wineskin. I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in surprise as he offered it to me. ‘He’s already issued the orders for the morning. So if he’s dead or alive, we’re still fucked.’

‘The vanguard?’ I guessed, and Pavo nodded. There was little anger in the movement, only resignation.

‘He’s given us the most honourable position.’ He managed to smile, and cast out his arms. ‘Honourable deaths for everyone.’

‘Do they know?’ I asked with a gesture of my head towards the other tents of the century, and my section.

Pavo took the wineskin from me, and held it up as his answer. ‘In the morning.’ He shrugged. ‘The boys will have enough to deal with tonight.’

‘Why?’ I asked, my stomach knotting at the thought of more imminent danger.

Pavo took a deep draught of the wine, replaced the stopper, and got to his feet. ‘Can you walk?’ he asked.

I nodded, the wine and short rest having done something to restore my balance, or at least I hoped so.

‘Then get to your feet, lucky one.’ He smiled dryly, surprising me once more by offering his hand. ‘Come and see what has become of Varus’s glorious army.’

What was left of the century formed up in the darkness, forty-eight men huddled together against the tempest. I was far from the only man battered and bruised, but none of the soldiers bore worse than a flesh wound – those who had suffered more serious injuries had fallen from formation in the forest, and had likely died hideous deaths at the hands of the Germans.

Now Pavo informed us that there would be more suffering before the dawn. ‘The governor’s ordered that we break camp before first light. The plan is to try and slip away in the dark, before the Germans can work out in which direction we’re going,’ he said, voice raised against the sweeping rains.

‘We’re not tearing down the camp?’ a veteran asked.

‘The camp stays up,’ Pavo told him. Beside me, Moonface’s mouth dropped aghast at the deviation from army practice.

‘The camp stays up,’ Pavo repeated. ‘And the baggage train stays here.’

The second part of the announcement brought forth a series of disbelieving cries and curses, for to abandon the baggage train was an acknowledgment that the army was in far more trouble than the soldiers had been led to believe.

I looked over the faces of my section. Chickenhead’s pinched face was as cold as marble. Rufus seemed to shake with anger. For my own part, the statement only confirmed what I had been led to believe by the demeanour of the army’s commanders – that they were running scared.

‘This is bollocks!’ a voice cried out to a chorus of loud agreement.

Pavo called for silence. After a fraction of a second, he got it. His actions in the forest had earned him the respect of all but Titus, and he had become the century’s leader in more than name.

‘There’s something else,’ he announced, taking the helmet from his head so that he could address his men soldier to soldier, man to man.

The action was so unlike the cocky bastard that I braced myself, for it could only be the most grave of news that was making the centurion behave in this way.

And it was.

‘The badly wounded. They aren’t coming with us.’

The howl of the wind and rain was drowned out by indignant curses at the idea of such an order. Where before there had been surprise and hurt pride, now there were only shouts of anger, reproach and fear.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Stumps called out. ‘Just how fucked are we?’

Pavo had no answer, standing like a statue as the rain pelted his uncovered face.

‘This is a bloody disgrace!’ a veteran roared. ‘We can’t leave them! The goat-fuckers will skin them alive!’

Optio Cato stepped forward to the front of the assembly. Pavo’s second in command, Cato was largely redundant in the century, every man knowing that it would be Titus who would step into Pavo’s shoes should the centurion fall, the natural laws of leadership and survival trumping the chain of command now that the army was in such dire straits.

‘Lads,’ Cato began, holding up his hands, ‘calm down! We don’t have any seriously wounded in the century. We’re not leaving anybody behind!’

The words did something to restore order, loud curses reduced to grumbles.

Pavo gestured that Cato should rejoin the ranks, then put his helmet back on, its shorn crest billowing in the wind. ‘We don’t,’ he agreed, his words directed at all present. ‘But other centuries do.’

‘What are you saying, Pavo?’ Titus growled from the rear ranks, sick of dancing around the matter. ‘Just tell us what the fuck is going on.’

The centurion sought out the big man. There was no doubt that he had to force the bitter words from between his teeth, and when he spoke, even the hardest of the men swallowed.

‘We’re to report to the camp hospital and separate the wounded from their comrades,’ Pavo ordered, and I knew that with his next words, his eyes would become as dead as the night’s darkness. ‘We’re to make sure that they’re left behind.’

Formed into two ranks, Pavo led the century through the camp’s tented avenues, the mud a viscous oil beneath our feet.

Everywhere in the darkness soldiers hurried about in preparation for the army’s early departure, taking what they needed from the baggage train and stowing it with their own personal equipment. Unlike the departure from the summer camp at Minden, these measures were accompanied by an air of desperation, and Chickenhead clucked at the army’s anxiety.

‘Wasting their time. They should just worry about sleep,’ he opined beside me. ‘We’re gonna have to fight our way out of this forest, Felix. All the stuff on the carrying yokes will be dumped by the time the day’s out, I promise you. Shields, sword and wineskin, that’s what we’ll be carrying.’

We tramped on through the dirt, the veteran’s eye catching my own.

‘This bit’s going to be hard,’ Chickenhead added quietly, with a glance towards the younger members of the section.

I said nothing. There was nothing to say. I knew what the old soldier meant: it would be down to the old sweats to take on the horror of separating the casualties from their friends, and to heap it on to our already polluted souls.