Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

‘What a fucking mess,’ Malchus surmised as he looked at the girl. ‘Ripped her clean open.’

‘Every one of them’s blaming the Syrians,’ I heard H mutter, gesturing towards the crowd.

‘This wasn’t the lizards.’ Malchus dismissed the theory. ‘They like little boys. Probably one of the perverts in our own ranks, H. What do these civvies expect?’ He spoke with bitterness. ‘That the blokes can rape and pillage in the name of Rome, then turn it off when they’re told to?’

‘That’s discipline, sir,’ H countered.

‘It is, H, which is why we’re not all running around here like a bunch of fucking pirates, but it only takes one or two of the men to fall through the cracks. Keep a close eye on your blokes. People’s brains start to boil under siege.’

The cohort commander was right. Any battle brought with it its own pressures, but there was a release from that in bloodshed – a relief. If battle was a quick beating, then siege was slow torture: the agony of never knowing when there would be danger or where it would come from; the constant companions of fear and hunger. It changed people. A lucky few came out of it vitalized and with the ability to then attack any obstacle, but most became withdrawn and fearful. Some broke and took their own lives, or the lives of others.

Looking at the butchered girl in the dirt, I knew that she would not be the last victim to die within the walls.

I pushed open the doorway and stepped into the courtyard. Sunlight bounced back from the white walls. Alongside paths of painted tiles, perfect lines of flowers shimmered in their ranks like armoured soldiers.

I walked to the centre of the square garden, dipping my hand into the cool water of the pond. As I moved, my eyes searched for an ambush that I hoped would come swiftly.

There was nothing.

I looked into the pond’s calming waters. In the reflection I saw a handsome young man, skin darkened by sun, eyes set alight by life.

I smiled. I was enjoying this game.

I went through the house room by room. It was quiet. My family had gone to visit friends and were not expected back until later that night, when they would be soaked with wine and witless. The slaves had been relieved of their duties for the day, and so my footsteps echoed in the deserted building. There was haste in my footfalls; I wanted to make use of this unexpected privacy.

Twice I searched rooms where window veils played gently with the ocean breeze, dappled light falling across furniture polished as dark as my father’s beard. Twice I searched, and twice I was beaten.

I left the house and walked on to the street. I could feel the heat through my sandals, but the breeze drew its fingers across my neck like a caress. A prelude to what I searched for.

Despite the heat, I ran. Sweat began to stain my white toga, but I was young. An athlete. My breath was steady and my limbs were loose. The coast appeared before me, golden sand and a glittering sea. Hot sand pushed between my toes. I looked left and right along a beach that knew my deepest secret.

I was alone. The game was wearing on me, but I was young, and competitive. No matter the sport, no matter the challenge, I did not lose.

I looked at the ocean. The wet prow of a galley glowed golden as the oars beat their way out to sea. I took a moment to indulge my imagination, thinking of her destination. Of Rome. Of endless possibility.

The ship had left the port of my home town, and now I knew that this was where the game would end.

I ran along the sand, stamping it from my feet as I reached the paved streets, picking my way between olive-skinned merchants and haggling slaves. A child caught my eye, and smiled for a coin. I threw him two. I wanted my happiness to be a disease. Contagious. I wanted everyone in the port to feel the same thumping heartbeat of anticipation as I did. The same thrill that flushed my skin, and carried me like an emperor above the heads of those around me.

I knew where the game would end – on the stone pier that drove out into the ocean. It was the closest point we had to Rome. The point where we would sit and dream.

Today would be the day that dream became reality. Today, when the game ended, a life would begin in its place.

I turned a final corner between fishing baskets, the smell of salt and olive oil filling my nostrils, and then I saw the pier. It was a scrum of men, women and children. Sailors loaded a galley that was sitting deep as its hull was filled. Old men cast lines into the water for their dinner. The pier was packed, and yet to my eyes it was empty.

She wasn’t there.

Somehow, I had lost the game.

I turned for home. Deflated, my eyes were on the cobblestones as I walked into my father’s thick chest, the bristles of his beard pushing against my face.

‘Father?’ I asked, confused. Confused because he was supposed to be with his friends. Confused because, for the first time in my life, the man looked down at me with disappointment.

And then, he told me how the game would end.

I was used to waking to my screams, not tears. I felt them roll across my gaunt cheeks as I rose from my bed and swung my feet on to the barrack-room floor.

I felt hollow. As gutted as the girl who’d been butchered three nights earlier. My body was still, not fighting violently as it did against my night terrors, but my spirit had fled. I was so calm and empty that, for a moment, I wondered if I’d died in my sleep.

Comrades snored in their bunks; this was not the afterlife. Regardless, I wanted to be free from it.

I took hold of my cloak, pulling it over my shoulders, and stepped out into the night air. The moon was low, and my section was relieved of duty until dawn, when the entire garrison would stand to, prepared for any assault – a daily ritual. Not wanting to return to the dream that had drained me, I walked towards the centurion’s quarters, which were situated at the end of the block. When the century was off duty, one man would remain at his post there, keeping a log of the soldiers’ whereabouts.

‘Felix, Seven Section,’ I told the man on duty. ‘I’m going to the quartermaster’s.’

‘Meeting your mate, are you?’ the soldier asked, bored and hoping for conversation.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Stumps. Seven Section. He’s gone to the same place.’

I hadn’t noticed Stumps’s bunk was empty, and suddenly felt glad that I would have his company. Despite the enemy camped on our doorstep, our life within the fort was taking on the routine of rest and guard duties, and in that discipline Stumps seemed to be finding some sense of order, and a return to his sarcastic self.

‘I’m here to see Titus,’ I told the two men that stood sentry at the quartermaster department’s door.

‘Yeah, he’s in there,’ one of them answered whilst warming his hands over a crackling brazier.

I stepped inside.

Flickering candles lit the room. Placed lower than the man’s towering height, they turned Titus’s already imposing face into a figure of dread.

‘Fucking glad you’re here,’ he grunted. ‘Thought I was gonna have to carry him on my own.’

I looked at the floor. By Titus’s feet lay the prone figure of our comrade.

‘Drunk?’ I asked.

‘Drunk was hours ago. I’m not sure what I call this. He’s fucking pissed himself too, so watch your hands when you grab him. I’ll take the arms.’

‘Don’t you have stretchers?’

Titus laughed. ‘Sometimes I forget there’s more to this place than a front.’

‘Business going well, is it?’

‘Yeah, and you could be a part of it.’

‘I could use some coins,’ I confessed. ‘I lost everything in the forest. A loan though, not work.’