Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

I let him fall then, as good as dead. Malchus and Brando had taken care of the others. I assumed we would move immediately, and prepared myself to run.

‘Wait a minute,’ Malchus ordered, dropping to his knee alongside the largest of the Germans. The centurion must have dropped the man with a combination of blows: the thick German chest had been cleaved open and hissing air escaped from torn lungs. The warrior was not long for this world, but before he could move on to the next, he would have to suffer the pain of Malchus cutting the ears from his head.

‘Why, sir?’ Brando asked, more in confusion than revulsion.

‘Why not?’ Malchus laughed. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

I had no time to think about our commander’s trophy-collecting. Fires raged around us, and where there was no fire, the enemy were forming up in groups bent on killing.

As we ran, we passed the first of our own dead.

‘Check that he’s done,’ Malchus ordered, wanting to save our men the agony of torture.

I turned the soldier over. A German axe was buried deep in his chest.

‘He’s dead.’ I had to shout to be heard. The sound of fighting was scarce, but barked commands were everywhere. So too was the crackle of flames. Goats bleated in fear of the blaze. I saw men and children running with buckets, whilst the intent of most tribesmen seemed to be the protection of their meagre assets rather than the capture of the raiding party.

‘They’re not interested in us now,’ Malchus said as he took in the rippling flames that licked about us, the soot of his face streaked by sweat.

It wasn’t until we had sneaked and sprinted our way to the outer edges of the enemy encampment that we realized the Germans had proved him wrong Between the enemy camp and our safety stood a strong skirmish line of German warriors.

The light of the fire shone back from a hundred iron shield bosses of German warriors positioned between ourselves and safety.

‘Remember your way to that trench?’ Malchus whispered.

I did. It was our only chance to sneak by the line of enemy, though I had little hope that there would be anything stealth-like about our movements. The enemy were certain to have guarded it and, trapped in the narrow confines of the zigzaging trench, we would have to take them head on, and hope that spearmen did not appear above to spit us like fish.

I led the way back into the warren of tents. The blaze was coming under control. We had to use the last of its distraction whilst we still could.

‘Just run,’ Malchus ordered.

‘Wait!’ Brando insisted instead. Without waiting for acknowledgment, he ducked inside a tent. A high-pitched plea from within was followed by a gurgle. Brando emerged seconds later, his blade bloodied and cloaks in his hand.

‘Good lad.’ Malchus smiled, taking one. I wrapped the other about my shoulders.

‘You can lead the way?’ I asked the Batavian. He was our best chance of navigating the camp now.

He nodded sternly and we hurried on, the raised bank of the outer earthworks visible in the light of the flames. A few solitary figures paced this higher ground as we drew closer, but none paid attention to the three cloaked figures who strode brazenly towards the opening of a zigzag trench.

We dropped down into mud. The smell of wet soil filled my nostrils. The walls of the trench dampened sound, the noise of the camp’s chaos instantly muted.

‘You done this before?’ Malchus asked me.

‘I have.’

‘Take the left wall. I’ll take the right.’

I did, sticking close to the soil, Malchus a half-pace beside me on my flank. Brando walked backwards behind us to watch our rear, occasionally peering above the lip to check that we were not placing ourselves like eels in a wicker trap.

We came to the first zigzag of the trench. It angled to the right as we faced it, which placed me on the exposed side. If there was an enemy warrior waiting in the shadows he would see me first, and lunge. Malchus, tight on the right, would have a moment to strike as the man came at me and exposed his own flank. When the trench turned left, our roles would be reversed. A heartbeat of hesitation from either one of us could see the other dead.

The first of the enemy we encountered was still raising his blade when Malchus’s sword chopped through his throat. I moved past the fallen man quickly, his companion’s wide eyes flashing with terror before I plunged the blade into his heart. It stuck deep, and it took my foot on the man’s chest to pull the blade free from the body’s suction, air gasping as I finally succeeded.

We moved onwards. Inch by inch, mouths dry, hearts beating. Eyes adjusted to the gloom, but visibility was still measured in yards.

I took the wide sweep on another right angle. There was a brief flash as the axe flew by my head, and buried itself in soil. Then there was a scream as my blade found guts, and blood jetted out over the tribesman’s beard.

It had been a loud scream.

The cries of alarm followed a heartbeat later.

‘Fuck it!’ Malchus ordered. ‘Over the side! Go!’

We obeyed, Brando pushing my legs up and over before I turned to help pull him out. Malchus came out alone, vaulting clear like a thoroughbred horse.

We had cleared the enemy’s skirmish line, but only just, and warriors now came at us from the darkness, screaming revenge and murder.

‘Go!’ Malchus shouted. ‘Run! Get to the fort!’

And so, for the second time, Brando and I ran from the German trench. On this night, the enemy were not about to allow our escape without pursuit.

Fuck, some of them were fast. I imagined these were the youngest and the most headstrong, eager to make a name for themselves and desperate to wipe clean some of the humiliation that the tribes had endured that day. Two of them cleared ahead of their pack like cheetahs, axe heads flashing as their arms pumped in stride.

‘Keep going!’ Malchus ordered us, before turning to face the enemy.

The German pair had been fast sprinters, but that counted for nothing once they closed on Malchus, who had speed where it counted: in his sword arm. I heard their screams, but I did not stop to look. I would not stop, I promised myself. I would not stop.

But my body thought differently.

My legs buckled.

I went down hard, my head bouncing from the dirt. Brando stopped instantly and turned to my aid as Malchus rushed to rejoin us, the enemy close on his heels.

‘Get up!’ he screamed. ‘Keep going!’

I tried, Brando grunting as he hauled at my tunic, but I managed only a single pace before my legs failed me again. All the miles, all the wounds, caught up with me now to condemn me before the fort’s walls.

‘Go,’ I begged Brando.

He would not.

Malchus arrived beside us. His eyes flashed from me to the enemy. Less than ten breaths and they would be on us.

‘I know, sir.’ I gasped for air. As Malchus had ordered, I would die by my own hand. I would not be a plaything for the Germans. ‘I’ll finish it myself,’ I told him.

‘Shut up and run!’ the centurion roared at me instead.

I tried – fuck, I tried – but I had reached the end of my road, and so as I collapsed on to my back, I took the point of my blade and pressed it into my throat, praying that I would have the strength to push it home before the enemy took hold of me.

‘Go,’ I pleaded, readying myself to end it all. ‘ Go! ’ I barked.

They would not.

And then the sky rained fire.

My eyes were closed. I was picturing the fire arrows that had streaked through the sky above me as Malchus and Brando had grabbed my tunic and dragged me like a corpse to the fort’s wall. There I had tried to stand, but my limbs had mutinied, failing to obey the simplest command. That did not condemn me, for the awesome display of force from the fire arrows had deterred the German pursuit, and so we were unmolested as ropes were lowered, and I was trussed up like a calf to be lifted on to the battlements and carried to my barrack room.