Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

‘For Rome.’ Malchus spoke, calm and confident. ‘For each other.’

We marched out, our ranks double spaced to avoid a giveaway through collision of shields or equipment.

No one talked. Mouths trapped tighter still as the smell of rotting flesh greeted us. We were passing the trench in which we’d dumped the bodies, and the stench was sickly sweet. I’m certain that I wasn’t the only soldier picturing how my own body would look if the worst happened, knowing it could be a reality before dawn.

As we marched through the dripping darkness, I replayed the briefing that Malchus had delivered as the cold sun had set. He had surprised me by demanding that his men take prisoners: ‘The only thing that will scare them more than dying is disappearing,’ the fierce centurion had snarled. I couldn’t fault his words, and thought of our time in the forest. How the unknown of trap and ambush had been far more terrifying than any open field skirmish. There was fear in death, but there was also certainty. Imagination could be as deadly as any shield wall. Rumour could break an army with the same devastating effect as artillery. I had seen it with my own eyes. How words had spread like a blaze, and gutted a town to the same effect.

Now wasn’t the time to think of that place. Now was the time to concentrate on the present, and how I would live through it. I felt almost naked to be outside of the fort’s walls, even within a formed body of men. There was comfort in the presence of my comrades about me, but we were fewer than 150 in a province that had turned against us.

I became caught up on that thought: to turn against Rome, Germans east of the Rhine would have had to have been, at some point, with the Empire. Had there ever truly been such a relationship? Or had Rome assumed it by dropping legions on to the locals’ heads and demanding that they bend the knee? I expected that this was the case, and that this violent explosion had been growing since the first hobnailed sandals had tramped across the bridges over the Rhine and into new territory.

‘Slow down,’ Malchus whispered, and the leading ranks slowed just enough so that men would not crash into the backs of the soldiers ahead of them.

‘Halt.’ The formation came to a stop. Malchus began to ghost along its flank, passing down his orders. ‘Get off the track and into the ditch. I’m going ahead to take a look.’

We were close, then. With the other men, I slithered into the dark maw of the ditch beside the dirt road, my sandals sinking into ice-cold water and slime. White eyes peered over shield rims as men strained to see into the black. Breath was hushed. Muscles were tight. Soon, Malchus returned.

His teeth were bright beneath the clouds. He was grinning. ‘They’re asleep.’

It was time for a slaughter.

Malchus ordered us to place our shields and javelins down in ordered rows on the dirt track. Even with their waxed covers the shields had grown heavy with rain, and their weight would be an unnecessary encumbrance for what Malchus had planned.

‘Archers to stay here with the kit. Be prepared to loose volleys on my command,’ the centurion whispered.

I wondered at the temperament of the men who would be watching our backs. Legions won battles because brother would die for brother – even those they had never met. Would this hold true with auxiliaries who had been accused of rape and murder by those they would be called to fight alongside? Claims that had led to their own comrades being killed by an angry mob?

I hoped it wasn’t a question we would need answered.

‘My boys, short swords only,’ Malchus went on. ‘They’re asleep, lads. They think we’re cowards. They think we’re going to sit in the fort and wait to die. They’re going to learn the hard way about the Nineteenth when we creep in there and slit their throats.’

Satisfied that his men were now unburdened, Malchus turned to myself and the Batavians and smiled. ‘Let’s go.’

We followed him along the unpaved road, our footfalls soft and padded. A light wind carried rain into our faces, but no sound that would betray us to the enemy.

Were they truly off guard?

Taking a shallow bend, lights suddenly appeared ahead of us. They had been screened by trees as we approached. To be still burning in the rain suggested that they were in some way sheltered, which supported the notion that Arminius had settled down to starve us out, whilst the number of fires suggested that this was the main body of enemy troops. Sentries should have been posted beyond the bend and trees, but no one had stirred at our approach. So effortless was our advance that a warning began to sound in my mind that we were crouching our way into a trap. But then I looked at the silhouette of the centurion ahead of me. Malchus was a born killer. He was a wolf, and if there was a snare waiting for us on that track, he would have smelt it.

The wax hide of tents was pale by the firelight. Rain drummed from the shelters in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. I saw no movement. No tell-tale flickers. No dark shadows against canvas.

My heart began to thump. Imposed silence could be louder than any clash of armies.

Malchus stopped and began to gesture to the men behind me. Section by section, his troops peeled away into the darkness. As we crept to the fringe of the enemy encampment, I began to see Roman soldiers slipping between the tents like wraiths.

Malchus stalked forwards and then held up a hand. We were beside a sagging tent. Beneath the patter of rain I could hear snoring. My heart beat faster still. I tilted my head back, desperate to catch moisture for a throat parched with nerves. Malchus took hold of the tent’s flap and, with the delicacy of a lover, opened the canvas. He stopped then, smiling at me. Giving me the honour of the kill.

I forced my breath down into my lungs, willing my heartbeat to slow and my hand to be steady. I stepped within the tent, a waft of stale sweat and ale assaulting me. My eyes were already adjusted to the night, and so I could see the four dark shapes on the ground. Snores and heavy breaths guided me to their heads. I gently reached down with my hand and felt hair, long and lank. The man was sleeping on his front, and so he made it easy for me. I felt for the point where his spine met his skull, and drove my dagger within. What noise came from his death was covered by the snores of his comrades and the rain on the waxed hide. One by one, the tent’s occupants died in bliss.

I stepped out into the wet air.

Folcher now held the flap; Brando and Malchus were out of sight. I assumed the centurion had run out of patience, and wanted to indulge in his own killing. I could hear the sounds of it now: the slashing of blades and cut-off chokes. It wouldn’t be long until the Germans woke.

‘Prisoners,’ I whispered into Folcher’s ears, gesturing to the next tent. We crept over and then, slowly, the Batavian pulled back the flap. I looked within, seeing two forms that suited my purpose perfectly.

And then we waited. We waited, until a scream signalled that the time for stealth was over.

‘Now!’ I shouted to Folcher, pouncing on the prone figures.

Shocked out of slumber, the Germans instinctively began to kick and jerk violently. The resistance was expected, and I pummelled my fists into a skull over and over until blood flowed, cheekbones cracked like eggs and the struggle ended. I felt the warmth of piss as my terrified prisoner lost control. Beside me, Folcher had subdued his own captive.

‘Let’s go,’ I grunted, as much to my prisoner as to Folcher, who now began to let loose a savage torrent of his own language, doubtless telling the prisoners what would happen if they thought to resist.