Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

The sound of hobnails on wood gave away the approach of the relieving section. I gave a short handover report to their section commander, and then gathered my men.

‘You don’t have to come to this,’ I told them as we stripped arms and armour in the barrack block; Brando had been inquisitive as to our plans for the service.

‘But can we?’ he asked.

Folcher also looked at me for permission. The Batavians had lost their own comrades and soldiers in the forest. I had seen one of them killed with my own eyes at the hands of our German captors.

‘Of course,’ I told them.

The three newcomers to the section remained in the block, happy to escape the wind that was racing between the fort’s buildings.

‘How long until winter sets in?’ I asked the Batavians.

‘Real winter?’ Brando shrugged. ‘Two months. It will be like this a lot now, though. Maybe some sun in six months.’

‘Fuck this life,’ Stumps cursed.

‘You’ve been in Germany before for winter?’ I asked him.

‘Yeah, but in a stone fort on the Rhine, and with nice big fires.’

We arrived at Drusus’s altar. I had expected to find Titus waiting, but the presence beside him surprised me: Metella, former proprietor of the section’s favourite inn at Minden, and now Titus’s business partner in black-market trading.

‘Stumps, you arse.’ She smiled fondly at her old friend. ‘I heard you pissed yourself.’

‘You know there’s an army outside waiting to kill us?’ He smirked. ‘I would have thought there were more interesting things to talk about.’

‘Nah. I hope you’ve changed your loincloth since then.’

‘I don’t wear one. They haven’t built one that’s up to carrying my beast.’

‘So that’s why the Syrians have been walking around wide-legged?’

Stumps opened his mouth for another round of banter, but Titus beat him to it.

‘Come on, we came here to do something.’ All sets of eyes fell on the man who had been our leader in the forest. I realized then that the Batavians were unknown to him, and made the introductions.

‘Look,’ Titus began, a little awkwardly, ‘I’m not a priest or an officer, but I don’t think we need one to do a service for our mates. Metella’s brought the wine, so we were thinking we’d pour some for the lads who aren’t here. Then we can say something about them, and then we drink the rest.’

I’d never seen Titus look so uncomfortable; one of his big paws was rubbing at the skin behind his neck as Metella brought forth a trio of wineskins.

‘It’s the best stuff here, no fucking around,’ she boomed. ‘A worthy offering to the boys.’

Titus took the skins from her hands, holding on to one himself and passing the others to Stumps and Folcher. Together, they poured the red liquid into the dirt.

The ripe smell of it lifted my nostrils. The sight of it lifted my stomach, because it brought back a memory. A bad one: I pictured the old man of the Pannonian village, and how he had trembled on his knees before me. How his grey hair had felt in my hand as I pulled back his head and sawed open his throat. How his blood had pattered on to the dirt as his family screamed. And then, how they had followed their beloved into the afterlife.

‘Felix?’ Brando was looking at me, his thick brow knotted in concern.

‘I’m all right,’ I lied.

As the wine continued to pour into the ground, the men spoke the names of comrades lost to the forest. Some I knew. Most I did not. Titus and Stumps had served in the legion for years, whilst Folcher’s entire cohort had been massacred – there were a lot of names to recite.

Once the names had been spoken, it was time for intimacy. A time to reflect in detail on those who had been closest to us.

Folcher went first. To give due honour to his comrades he spoke in his native tongue, the words coming with pride and fire. I heard the name Ekkebert amongst the German, before Folcher turned to Latin to conclude his passionate tribute.

‘They died for Rome,’ he told us. ‘They died for a dream. Because they make a sacrifice, now others also can dream.’

Brando bowed his head at the patriotic words. So too, I was surprised to see, did Metella – the Empire’s most devout followers were often found in its most unlikely places.

‘He has spoken for us both,’ Brando answered Titus’s invitation to speak, giving his comrade a proud pat on the shoulder.

‘All right then,’ Titus grunted, stepping forth to the front of the small assembly himself. ‘Most of you knew Rufus,’ he began. ‘Some of you know that he saved my life years ago, not that he’d ever talk about it. He wasn’t like that. Not in any way. They offered him a century, you know? But he turned it down. He just wanted to get along, and be with his family.

‘Rufus taught me a lot about family,’ the big man continued. ‘The way he was with his kids, he brought that with him into the ranks. It’s not always about having the loudest voice or the hardest punch. Sometimes you have to put yourself in your kid’s sandals, and see things how they look at it. Being a soldier isn’t an easy job, after all. Rufus just made it look like it was.’

Titus opened his mouth to speak again, seeming to prepare himself for a revelation or story, but then his shoulders sank down, and he let out a breath. ‘I’ll miss him,’ he finished.

‘We all will,’ Stumps confirmed.

Silence fell over our assembly. In the distance were the playful cries of children, the sound of hammering and the barked orders of an angry officer.

Eventually Titus looked up from the dirt, and to Stumps. ‘You want to talk about Chicken and Moon?’

‘Just Chicken,’ Stumps answered quickly. ‘We don’t know if Moon’s dead.’

Titus gave his comrade a patient smile. ‘You’re right,’ he allowed, though I could see by his slumped shoulders that he thought otherwise.

Stumps walked to the front of our group. I could see the nerves in each step, his gait tight.

After a moment to compose himself, he opened his mouth to begin. ‘Chickenhead was my—’

He didn’t get any further than that, a racking sob coming from his soul to utterly consume him. Stumps tried to break through the waves, but his grief was upon him now, and within a moment he was sobbing. It was Metella who came forward first, placing a motherly arm about his shoulders. He pushed his head into the woman’s embrace, and wept.

I saw Brando turn to Titus. The Batavian’s look asked for permission to speak. Titus gave it with a nod.

‘Stumps is my comrade,’ Brando announced, his voice low and firm. ‘If he were to grieve like this when I die, it would be the greatest honour.’

The flow of tears slowed at the words, and Stumps looked up; his face was red, his nose thick with bubbling snot. The memory of war and its pain sometimes reduced killers to infants.

‘Micon.’ Titus’s voice startled the boy. ‘Would you like to speak for Cnaeus?’

The young soldier gave a nervous nod. I could see Stumps fight to control himself and give due respect to the words and speaker. I didn’t know what I expected from Micon, but the youngster stunned all with his oratory and adoration.

‘Cnaeus was a hero,’ he recited from well-rehearsed memory. ‘He was a born soldier. When everyone else ran on the bridge, Cnaeus turned and faced the enemy. Cnaeus and Felix drove them back, and saved our lives. In the forest, Cnaeus told me it would be all right. He told me I would live. He told me that he would die for me, and no matter what, he would make sure I made it home. Cnaeus was a hero.’

There was not a solitary tear; Micon’s usual blank mask was infused with pride. I imagined then the conversations that the two young soldiers must have had in the forest: Cnaeus, terrified as he was himself, promising to see his friend through it. I let out a sigh as I pictured the youngster dying at my feet, his hands clutching desperately at the wound in his throat, eyes screaming for help as he recognized that his wound was mortal.