Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

It also allowed me to see that no enemy formations stood ahead of us.

Moonface spat. ‘They won’t come. Fucking goat-fucking cowards.’

Now that we were in position, Titus placed Chickenhead down on to the earth, the veteran still trembling from grief.

Moonface spoke again. ‘They won’t come.’

Something in those tired words triggered the volcano of Chickenhead’s sorrow to erupt in anger. The old soldier’s hand flashed out to snatch a javelin from young Micon’s grip, and before anyone could lay a hand on him, he charged forward from the formation.

‘Come on, you bastards!’ he cried, sprinting across the wet grass and brandishing the weapon in the air. ‘Come and die! Come and fucking die!’

‘Titus!’ I heard Pavo call in frustration, but we didn’t need to be told: the veterans of the section were already running with me after our errant brother. Moonface was the first to reach him, and brought him down by leaping on to his back.

‘They won’t fight!’ Chickenhead snarled, pinned to the earth, his teeth gnashing like a hunting dog.

‘You’ll be killed by our own commanders if you run like that, you mad old bastard!’ Moonface shouted into his friend’s face.

‘So let them kill me!’ Chickenhead shot back, and from the wild abandon in his eyes, I knew that he meant it. ‘Let them kill me!’ he challenged again.

Instead, we dragged him back to the century.

Pavo, his face freshly scarred since I had last seen him, stormed across to us. ‘It’s been a hard day. But the next man who leaves the formation will be broken for it. Fucking broken,’ he promised.

‘His cat died, sir.’ Young Micon spoke up as if the words explained everything, and an army of thousands was not being torn apart in the German forest.

Pavo’s mouth dropped open at the insubordinate answer, but such was the absurdity of the comment that the centurion was silenced.

‘The Germans won’t fight us here,’ he finally managed, turning on his heel. ‘So get ready to make camp.’

Only minutes later, the centurion’s prediction came true. Governor Varus had survived the forest, and now ordered that his legions build a marching camp in the open ground.

‘His cat died?’ Stumps asked, pulling his battered helmet from his head and shaking his head in wonder at Micon’s insubordination. ‘His fucking cat died.’

After the long morning of bloodshed, it was time for the army to lick its wounds.

I swung the pick into the dirt. The power behind the blow was pathetic, my muscles spent. All around me, other soldiers battled fatigue to dig the ditches and build the ramparts of the army’s marching camp.

Against the wind, I heard the sound of soft sobbing. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Stumps was digging, the soldier seemingly oblivious to the tears that cut through the thick grime on his cheeks.

‘His fucking cat died,’ I heard him repeat to himself for the thousandth time.

Chickenhead sat apart, his head between his bony knees as rain bounced from the steel of his helmet.

‘Keep digging,’ Titus grunted, seeing my stare. ‘He’ll come through.’

I wasn’t so certain. Chickenhead’s kitten had been the anchor that kept his mind from drifting into the waters of depression, and worse. Now there was nothing to hold the man back. Experience told me that he was as broken as any man with a spear in his guts.

Unfortunately, I had a long time to think over such dark matters. There were hours of backbreaking labour before the camp’s defences were completed. The men of the legions were exhausted and, despite the threats and cajoling of the centurions and optios, construction took twice the time that day as it had done when the army first took to the field.

Despite my own discomfort, I was grudgingly pleased to see that our commanders insisted on maintaining the regulation defences of the camp, an important step towards sustaining the discipline that was our best chance of survival. Still, that solace did little to soothe my blistered hands.

Pavo finally nodded, atop the earthen bank. ‘Good enough. Get some rest, and some food.’

‘We got any tents?’ Stumps asked in hope.

Pavo said nothing.

‘Felix,’ Titus said. ‘Come with me.’

I looked at Pavo, but the centurion made no protest as the section commander led me away, leaving our comrades to huddle together on the wet ground, a solitary blanket pulled over their heads for protection against the storm.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked Titus once we were out of earshot.

‘To find the camp followers.’

‘Rufus’s family?’

He nodded. So he hadn’t forgotten about his friend. I felt as if I needed to offer something.

‘He was a good man, Rufus,’ I tried feebly.

‘He was a great man,’ Titus grunted. ‘And a great soldier.’

‘He won the Gold Crown?’ I asked, referring to his decoration for valour.

‘Four years ago. We went on raids across the Rhine, nothing large scale. We went into a stinking village to raze the place. It looked deserted.’

‘It wasn’t,’ I guessed from his tone.

‘It wasn’t.’ He grimaced. ‘Half the century went down, including our centurion and optio. Rufus held it all together.’

I was surprised. Titus had always seemed the natural leader of the pair. Perhaps he read my thoughts.

‘I was one of the ones that went down.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Rufus pulled me out of a burning hut. He saved my life.’

I said nothing. No wonder the men’s bond had been so close.

‘They offered him the century after that, but he didn’t want rank. That wasn’t him. Just his family and his mates, that was enough.’

And so we looked for his family.

The camp followers – or, at least, those who had made it this far – were huddled in the camp’s centre, hundreds of wretched individuals who shuddered in the rain. Many had armed themselves with a mixture of Roman and German weaponry, for they would receive no mercy from Rome’s enemies. At best, these civilians could expect to be taken and sold into slavery. At worst, there was rape, torture and death.

Tradesmen of every colour and country had followed the army in the hope of riches. Now their stores were abandoned to the Germans, and these merchants would be lucky to escape the forest with their lives. Amongst them were the prostitutes, and I saw one of these hard-eyed women stare at me as we trod through the grass of a field that was quickly being churned to mud.

‘Go and fight them, you fucking tarts,’ the whore cursed, desperate to vent her spleen.

‘Fuck off, you rat,’ Titus growled. I had no doubt that he would beat her down should she retort, and the prostitute must have sensed it too, for she held her tongue, though her eyes screamed oaths.

‘Whores,’ Titus grumbled beneath his breath, and I saw dozens more, but where some followed the army for profit, others had done it out of love. These were the families of the troops, though all were unofficial.

These civilians made for pathetic figures now. I swallowed as I took in the miserable sight of them. Children wailed, their skin waxen and grey from exposure. Mothers, eyes wide and red, held dying babes to their chests and cried into their wet hair. I wondered which would survive this day, or the next. Very few, I was certain. Their bones would litter this field and the forest, sport for the German warriors and food for the woodland creatures.

‘Felix,’ Titus grunted, poking me in the chest with a thick finger and snapping me from my dark musings. ‘Stop standing there with your head up your arse and start asking for Rufus’s family.’

I did. Most of the families could tell me nothing, their eyes empty wells. Others told me to leave them alone, fuck off, or worse. None were forthcoming with any useful information.