Geraint Jones - Blood Forest

‘Let’s go,’ Pavo called.

The rain-filled sky was still dark as we shuffled from the ramparts, our guard duty finally at an end.

‘Get close,’ he ordered, and our century huddled as one mass around the silhouette of our centurion. ‘We’re forming up to march at the end of this watch, so if you need to shit or pray, then do it now.’

Their orders received, most of the century stayed in position, too tired to seek out sanctuary that they knew by now did not exist, but I saw Titus’s large shadow break from the ranks. Despite the fatigue of my body and mind, I wanted to think, and to move, and so I followed, falling into step alongside the brute.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked, feeling as though the experiences of the past few days had earned me the privilege of such questions.

‘We need food.’

We found it amongst the camp followers. Unburdened by arms and armour, some entrepreneurial souls had saddled themselves with the supplies Varus had ordered left behind when the baggage train was abandoned. Now these morsels were selling at a hundred times their worth.

To protect their investments, the tradesmen had taken on the service of a section of auxiliary soldiers, whose cohort commander had doubtless been paid off handsomely for the guard force. It was to one of these Batavian soldiers that Titus spoke. A pouch of coins was produced from within the big man’s tunic, and in return he was given a small parcel wrapped in cloth. It was barely the size of Titus’s gnarled fist, but he made no objection.

We walked away in silence. I knew that to procure the food for the section Titus had given up a considerable slice of his personal wealth – perhaps all of it. It was a selfless act of comradeship, and I muttered as much to the man.

‘If you’re all too weak to fight, then I die,’ he grunted in response.

‘If you say so.’ I shrugged, certain that his reply was nothing more than the keeping up of appearances.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I pushed on, desperate to distract myself.

‘If you have to,’ Titus replied, no doubt for the same reason.

‘Why did you come back to the eagles?’ I paused to gauge the man’s reaction. His thick brow knotted, but there was no sign of his anger flaring, and so I continued. ‘You did your twenty years in the desert. How did you end up here with a new legion, half a world away?’

Several wet footsteps passed, and I expected that his answer had passed with them.

It had not.

‘As part of my discharge, they gave me a farm,’ Titus told me, his hard voice bitter. ‘A farm . Barren scraps on a slope so fucking steep you could hardly stand on it.’

‘So you couldn’t work it?’ I asked naively.

‘Of course I fucking worked it,’ the man shot back with anger and pride. ‘I dug out that slope until it was flat. I carried in rich soil from miles away. I made it work.’

‘Then why come back to the legions? To this?’ I gestured at the chaos around us, wanting to take advantage of Titus’s brief openness.

‘You know why.’ As he spoke, his tone was the softest I had ever heard it, oiled wood instead of steel. ‘A man needs family.’

I wanted to ask him more, but something in those last words told me it would be a mistake to do so. I had got as much as I could from the big man.

We reached our own family shortly afterwards, and it was a family, I knew. It wasn’t as simple as thinking of the section as seven brothers, for Titus was both mother and father, and Chickenhead the distressed uncle, but it was a family nonetheless. Dysfunctional but fiercely loyal.

‘Here.’ Titus handed out the food to his charges. ‘Get this scoff down your necks. Water, too.’

‘You’re not eating?’ Stumps asked, and Titus shook his head.

‘I had mine on the way back,’ our leader lied. ‘Now shut up and eat.’

We did, while the slate sky above us began to grow a lighter grey with the dawn.

‘Form up! Prepare to march!’ came the order that we both dreaded and welcomed, knowing that the enemy were now only heartbeats away. One way or another, we would soon see an end to our suffering, and so, as we took our places in the ranks, we not only prepared to march. We prepared ourselves to die.

In the darkness, it was impossible to tell how deep the ranks of our formation were, but it was evident that Prefect Caeonius had elected to form the two battle groups into short, dense units, rather than the long column that had been strung out through the forest in the previous days.

I found myself on the outside of the formation, with Titus in front of me and Stumps to my right. Behind me was a soldier from another section, his jaw chattering uncontrollably – from cold or fear, I did not know, nor would I blame him for either.

The wind whistled through the ranks, carrying with it the sound of shield bumping against shield, steel pulled free of its sheath and final words of encouragement between friends. From other parts of the camp, it carried the terrible cries of the wounded. Once again, those too maimed to march would be left behind, sentenced to die hideously at the hands of the Germans. I only hoped that their comrades would do the right thing and end their misery quickly before the army took flight.

Looking at the shadowed faces of the section, I saw men grown hard against such sounds and thoughts. Even young Micon and Cnaeus were unflinching as tortured screams tore through the gloom.

It was Chickenhead who broke, the once solid veteran cut free of the bonds of discipline now that he no longer cared for his life.

‘Out of my fucking way,’ he ordered, and began to push his way out of the centre ranks, where he had been placed by Titus.

‘Out of my way!’ he shouted again, his red eyes furious as Titus’s hand shot out to grip him by the sagging flesh of his throat. ‘Let go of me,’ he choked.

‘Get back in your place,’ Titus growled.

‘Fuck you,’ Chickenhead managed, and tried to spit, the pathetic fluid dribbling across his chin.

‘And where will you go, you daft cunt?’ Stumps asked his friend.

‘I’ll stay with the wounded.’

‘The wounded are already dead,’ Stumps replied coldly.

A strangled bark of laughter forced its way from the veteran’s throat, Chickenhead’s red eyes bulging with amusement. ‘We’re all dead, you soft bastard! Better to get it over with here and now, than drag it out in that fucking forest.’

Titus’s patience ran out. His free hand slammed into the breastplate of Chickenhead’s armour, driving the air from his lungs with such force that the man’s already bulging eyes looked like they would burst, and his knees buckled.

‘Enough of your shit,’ Titus swore, taking his hand from the veteran’s throat and allowing Moonface and Stumps to hold him upright. ‘Find your balls.’

‘Battle group!’ a voice called from the darkness. ‘By the centre, quick march!’

There were no trumpets. No horns. No unified slap of sandals against the dirt. Instead, a dense mass of men stirred muscles that had passed the point of endurance, shuffled across the earthen ramparts and marched towards the dark horizon of the enemy’s greatest ally: the forest.

As we moved, a figure appeared to my left, outside of the ranks. It was Pavo, come to talk to Titus ahead of me.

‘Two battle groups,’ he told his most trusted section commander. ‘We’re in the lead one, Caeonius commanding. We hit the Germans and push through.’

Titus made no comment. This was neither the time nor the place for elaborate plans. Only brute strength and the will to survive could carry us to safety.

‘I don’t see there being any chance for open manoeuvres and drill,’ Pavo concurred. ‘This is going to be a brawl, Titus. Just keep your boys tight, and push forward. Keep them tight, and don’t leave anyone behind. That’s all we can do.’