Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

We had left the section’s tent standing, Pavo having issued the orders that the century’s baggage would be left behind. As Chickenhead had predicted, we would be carrying only our arms, armour and the most basic of foodstuffs with us into the forest. A certain amount of extra equipment would be carried on the legion’s mules now that they were relieved of their carts, and amongst that would be tents, but the soldiery expected that these shelters would be reserved for the higher echelons of the command, and perhaps the legion’s elite First Cohort of veterans. For the foot-sloggers in the meat of the army’s fighting arm, the promise of an escape from the elements lay beyond the forest, and in a Roman fort on the Rhine.

‘May the gods help us,’ I heard Moonface pray. The devout soldier had doubtless come to the same conclusion, and knew that our days of misery were far from over, even if the Germans were to quit the battlefield. Despite his begging, the divine ones seemed disinclined to interfere with war or weather, and as the first band of dirty yellow light appeared on the horizon, we were given the hushed order to march with wind and rain lashing our pale faces.

Gone were the trumpets. Gone were the drums. This morning, an army slunk away towards the west like a whipped dog.

Such was the section’s misery that no one commented when the order of march became evident in the gloom: our own Second Cohort was leading the legion, and therefore the army. As the Second Century in that division, I found myself some thirty ranks back from the tip of the army, a hundred men ahead of me, more than fifteen thousand to my rear, and the gods only knew what host of enemies all around, though I expected we would meet some of their number soon enough.

With such grim thoughts in mind, I narrowed my eyes against the sheet-rain that drove hard towards us. The gale was so strong that it was almost as if the winds wanted to save us the horror of the forest, trying to drive us back within the earthen ramparts of the marching camp.

But we pushed onwards towards the black line of the forest. Towards the terror of the enemies’ traps and ambushes, just as infantrymen are supposed to.

No voices could be heard, only chattering jaws and the rattle of equipment. By the thick black belt that stretched across the horizon, I saw that we were almost within the forest. Then, as the first men entered, what had been a smooth march across the open ground became a stop-and-start stutter, those soldiers who had not yet withdrawn into themselves cursing as their sandalled feet hit half-buried tree roots or slipped on the cloying mud. Was this how Varus planned for his army to slip away from the German tribes who had shown themselves to be a step ahead of us at every turn? If I hadn’t been so terrified, perhaps I could have laughed. We were fucked, I knew deep down, but to survive I had to pretend otherwise.

Knowing that my balance could make the split-second difference between life and death during the ambush I was certain was coming, I tried to empty my mind of anything but my foot’s placement on the forest’s treacherous floor. I was tired, wet, hungry and bruised, but the sad truth was that I had been existing in such a state for months. My new life in the legions had brought me my first real shelter and proper food in as long as I cared to remember, but now I found myself drifting back to the most basic of animal instincts, shutting my mind to my wretchedness, and concentrating on the sounds and sights – as few as they were – about me. That meant I was one of the few soldiers who did not stalk into the back of the man in front as the column came to a shuddering halt and the whispers began.

‘Obstruction on the track.’

‘Fuck. What do we do?’ I heard from muted voices.

What we did was to wait in the darkness, senses tight. Men turned out to face our exposed flanks, shields pulled tightly against their chests like babes to their mothers. As we crouched in the gloom, I knew that scouts would be inspecting the barriers in our path, officers conferring over the course of action. I thought I knew what it would be.

‘Second Century to the front.’ My pessimism was justified.

We moved off at a half-step, the First Century having pushed out on to the flanks of the track, allowing us to stumble our way through their middle, the wall of shields a gutter to funnel us in the direction of the trail’s obstruction.

‘There’re logs across the path,’ Pavo whispered, joining us.

Even in the darkness, I could see that his skin shone bright and pale. He was shaken.

‘I’ve sent two sections to clear the closest ones,’ the centurion went on, the slightest of tremors in his voice. ‘Titus, you take your section and clear the smaller logs on the other side to them.’

‘Protection?’ the big man rumbled, his tone sounding like distant thunder.

‘First Century have men pushed out.’

‘Ahead of us?’ Titus pressed.

There was no answer, which gave us all the answer we needed – we were putting our head into the bear’s jaws.

Titus had heard enough. He pulled his sword free of his scabbard and, without a word, made to lead off.

Before he could take a step, Pavo gripped him by the mail of his sleeve.

‘There’s more,’ the centurion whispered, attempting to be a voice of calm and order. He failed, his tone cracking. ‘Above the logs. There’s…’ His voice trailed away as he sought out the words.

After a moment, he gave up trying to find them. ‘Be careful, Titus,’ he said instead.

Behind me, I heard Stumps utter a curse. Every other man was silent, doubtless picturing, as I was, the nightmarish surprises the Germans had left for us. We would have to find them in the darkness, for the rising sun was struggling in its battle with the gloom, and despite the beginnings of a ruddy red glow on the leaves, it was in the long shadows that we moved forward.

Titus led the way, and this time Pavo did not stop him. A natural motion now, I slipped in behind the big man, the other members of the section following on in single file. Chickenhead, as solid as any man, brought up the rear, ordered to do so by Titus in case any of the section tried to run in the face of the enemy.

In this order, we drew level with the first work party, soldiers of our own century, their yellow teeth grimacing in the gloom as they worked to haul the thick oaks from the army’s path.

‘Quieter!’ a voice of authority hissed from the shadows.

‘Come and do it yourself, you cunt,’ came a reply, the insubordination cloaked by the night.

Led by a soldier of the First Century, Titus skirted the work party, the section winding its way through the labouring soldiers towards our own task. A scream carried from far into the trees somewhere in the night. The sound of it made my balls climb up into my stomach.

‘We’re at the head of the army,’ I heard Stumps whisper behind me. He had come alive now that he was beneath the canopy of leaves, his adrenaline pumping. ‘Our section, at the head of the fucking army.’

But he was wrong. There were soldiers ahead of us. Roman soldiers.

They were waiting for us.

Vomit pattered the forest floor. I stood open-mouthed.

‘Gods,’ Stumps whispered. ‘Fucking fucking gods.’

The waiting soldiers were merely silhouettes at first, but as my eyes focused in the grey dawn, I could make out the straps of their sandals, the cut of their tunics and the rope that was twisted thickly about their necks.

The men hung from the branches like rotting fruit.

My stomach wanted to leave my body as I looked over them, seeing dead faces twisted in agony or mutilated beyond recognition.

Then, beside me, I heard a gasp of pain so terrible that I thought we had come under attack. I turned on instinct, bringing up my shield, expecting to find bloodshed and enemies.