Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

‘Doesn’t mean there’ll be war, though. Varus is a lazy bastard.’

‘He is, but that German ain’t.’

‘What German?’

‘Arminius.’

Pavo’s act held, though I could feel the interest come off him like a wave of heat. I could only hope my own wasn’t as obvious.

‘Roman name?’ asked the centurion.

‘Yeah.’ The quartermaster nodded, hauling a set of rusting chain mail on to the table. ‘He went to Rome as a hostage from his daddy and uncle, the chieftains. Took the name, then took rank with the cavalry. Bloody good soldier, from what I heard, but anyway, Varus thinks the sun shines out of this German’s arse, and the German’s got some scores to settle with the other tribes.’

‘Says who?’

‘Rumour mill.’ The big man shrugged. ‘If it’s bollocks, though, then it’s bollocks coming from a lot of different mouths.’ He surveyed the pile in front of him, and finally deigned to notice my presence. ‘Sign here.’

He pushed a ledger towards me, and I ran an eye quickly over the contents: heavy javelin, short sword, dagger, helmet, leather bag, string bag, T-shape carrying pole, all placed within the slightly rounded shield. There was a price set next to each item, and it would be deducted from my pay. That was fine by me. I didn’t intend on being around that long.

I signed with a cross next to each article, feigning illiteracy. It never did to give away too much, especially to your superiors. Let them think you’re an ignorant peasant, and they’ll talk as freely in front of you as they would a mule.

Pavo gave a grunt as a farewell, and I hoisted the shield and its contents from the counter. My arms and shoulders ached instantly from the burden, which must have weighed in excess of seventy pounds, but I could not afford to draw attention to myself through a show of weakness.

‘And tell that bastard Titus to come see me!’ followed us out.

Mercifully, it was a short distance to the century’s tented lines, and yet my back ached as though I’d been trampled by a horse.

Pavo commanded the Second Century of the Third Cohort, its position marked out by a standard of cloth placed at the end of the tented lines. The tents were large, made of waxed goat-hide that had bleached in the summer sun. There were twelve tents for the century, ten housing sections made up of eight men, with an individual tent set aside for Pavo, and another for his optio, the unit’s second in command.

Pavo led me to the tent furthest from his own. Outside it, scrubbing armour, were two soldiers barely older than boys. They sprang to a rigid attention as Pavo approached, but the centurion ignored them. He had been quiet since the talk with the quartermaster, evidently chewing over the notion that there could be war.

‘In there,’ he told me, and left.

I felt the eyes of the two young soldiers on me as I placed my burden on the ground. I had been in this situation before, years ago, and I had learned the hard way that it would not do to go staggering into the tent, exhausted and aching. Instead, I caught my breath, rolling my shoulders in their sockets, and all the time feeling the eyes of the two young legionaries upon me.

It must have been clear to them that I was a new soldier, as they were, but my age and appearance gave them pause for thought. It was not unusual for older men to be recruited by the legions, particularly by force during an hour of need, but by arriving I had elevated them from the lowest of the low, and they were busy trying to decide if they were therefore obliged to put me in my place, as they had endured themselves upon arrival. Certainly they thought of it, and one even came as close as to open his mouth, but one look from my worn-out eyes was enough to silence him. Inside the tent, I knew it would be different.

I picked up my equipment and pushed through the entrance.

The tent was bleached by the sun, the thin skin allowing the late summer’s sunshine inside, and saving me the necessity of having to pause at the threshold to allow my eyes to adjust.

I had expected to find five men within, given that the section was made up of eight, and two were outside, but I found only four.

Two were lying prone on their bedrolls, one snoring lightly, while another two were playing a game of dice, the pile of coins small, low stakes between friends to pass the time. All four were veterans, evident from the fact that the youngsters outside were cleaning their armour, and by the silver plates stitched on to their legionary belts.

At first, they didn’t seem to notice me, probably assuming that the movement at the tent flap had come from one of the novice soldiers. Then, when there was no noise and movement to mark my exit, heads began to turn my way.

I stood there, my equipment in my aching arms, and met their gaze. I held it, feeling the inquisitive hostility for a few seconds, and then casually broke it, casting my eyes around for a place to lay my burden. I found it in the far corner, which meant walking past the veterans. I did so without acknowledging them, and I felt their eyes tracking me as I moved. I expected an assault at any moment, either physical or verbal, but none came. That could mean only one thing: their leader was not present.

I placed my equipment into the tent’s corner, as gently as if laying down a child. I took great care in rolling my blanket on to the packed-dirt floor, and then, with effort, I forced myself to close my eyes, assuming a look of serene comfort.

I felt the hard stares through my closed lids, but I heard nothing. I was disappointed. I just wanted it to be over.

I waited hours and, in that time, I feigned sleep. The act was exhausting, my body tense, awaiting the inevitable. During that time I heard three of the men come and go, while the other snored blissfully in the opposite corner. Outside, I could hear the sound of brushes on metal as the boy soldiers cleaned armour, the cloying smell of their wood-ash polish wafting into the tent.

It was a shadow that gave away the appearance of their leader. I felt the light above me darken, and I hoped that it was a cloud passing the sun, and not the silhouette of what must be a huge man. From the sound of his voice, steel dragged over gravel, I would be disappointed.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

I deigned to open my eyes, and willed my face to stay neutral. It wasn’t easy.

His head was grazing the tent’s top, his shoulders as wide as a century in battle formation. I was surprised to see that, despite this mountain of flesh, the man had a handsome face, though one which was now twisting in distaste. I noticed the deep crow’s feet about his bright eyes, and the olive skin, and surmised that this brute was a veteran of the desert legions. How had he come to be here, surrounded by rivers and forests?

I pushed the absurd question from my mind. I had to concentrate on surviving this encounter with him, not chronicling his service.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he repeated, taking a step closer.

I saw that his veterans were on his shoulder, waiting to take their lead from this man. The two youngsters were watching at the tent flap, continuing their military education. Besides myself, only one other man was lying down – the sleeping soldier, who was now propping himself up on to his elbows, an amused smile on his pursed lips.

I decided that it was time for action.

I stood slowly, giving them no cause to overreact. Doubtless the novice soldiers would have reported that the centurion himself had escorted me to the tent, and this anomaly would be the only reason that I was not currently having my face trampled into the dirt.

‘You’re in my tent, you ignorant bastard.’ His voice was low, thunder on the horizon. ‘Fucking answer me.’