Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

We pushed the staggering figures out into the open. Screams and challenges were beginning to echo. Many of the Germans were waking to blades at their throats, but not enough – we were outnumbered, and Malchus was not going to risk being cut off as we had been on the raid for wood.

‘Back! Back! Back!’ he called.

My feet slipped on the wet soil as I obeyed the command; I only regained my balance as I gripped the arm of a passing legionary. Even in the night, there was no mistaking him.

‘Stumps?’

‘Shut up and run!’ he shot back at me.

It was not a time for questions, and I moved off on his heels. By the light of the German campfires, I now caught my first sight of the man who was my prisoner. The man was a boy, barely into his teens. His partner in Folcher’s grip would have had a grey beard had it not been stained bloody crimson, and I could tell by the terrified animal look in his eye that he was the boy’s father.

It was not my place to pity them. Instead we pushed them onwards, converging on the road where I saw other soldiers dragging their captives by hair or shirt. One offered enough trouble for the legionary holding him to tire of the effort, instead ramming his sword so deep into the German’s stomach that it appeared through his back.

‘Have it your way then, you prick,’ I heard him spit as he stepped on to the corpse, the blade pulling free of the body’s suction with a wet slurp.

Legionaries were all about me now. We were running, though there was no sound of pursuit at our backs. I looked over my shoulder, and saw none of the tell-tale signs of moving torches that would signal the enemy preparing to follow. Perhaps it was simply the rain dousing their flames, and they would attempt vengeance in the darkness. Either way, we would not wait in place to aid them.

Panting, we rounded the bend in the track, a straight run then to where the archers had been left with our kit. We made it without incident, the only danger the uneven surface of the road. Men cursed as they hit rain-filled potholes, but the only violence on the track came in the soldiers’ language.

‘Who’s got prisoners?’ Malchus called as we reached the Syrians and our shields. ‘Bring them here! Quickly! Hurry!’

With Folcher I pushed my captive towards the centurion’s voice. Beside his silhouette I found a gaggle of Syrians. They had rope in their hands, and quickly went about binding the captured enemy. Tied together, the Germans became vertebrae of the same miserable spine.

There was no time to catch the breath that burned in my chest, and within moments I had a shield and javelin in hand. In the darkness, I felt more than saw the century forming up on the track. All was in good order. There were panting gasps, suppressed giggles of nervous laughter and the loud clearing of nostrils, but no moans from wounded men.

I dared to hope that we had got away clean. Malchus wanted to make sure of it.

‘Archers,’ he hissed. ‘Three volleys. Creep the range. Loose!’

I heard a strange voice translating the order, and then the first of the arrows whistled out into the night. It wasn’t until the third and final volley that the fire was greeted by a scream; there was a pursuit in the darkness, but Malchus had now given the Germans something to think about. I hoped it would be enough. We were a long way from the fort.

‘Century,’ Malchus ordered. ‘Jog-trot.’

We moved off, fear and excitement pushing our pace a half-step quicker than regulation. The rain grew heavier; sandals slapped and tramped into wet dirt. Amongst the sheets of the downpour, teeth flashed white as men dared to hope that we had made our escape so easily.

‘How many you get?’ a buoyant young voice whispered to a comrade in the darkness.

‘Ten.’

‘Bollocks! I bet you never even got three. You can’t even cut your dinner, you dickhead.’

‘Keep the fucking noise down,’ Malchus’s optio growled beneath his breath.

We trotted on to the steady chorus of hobnails, shifting equipment and the rap of rain against steel. At pauses that seemed to be random and unplanned, Malchus would order archers to loose arrows along the track behind us – there were no screams. No hoof beats. There seemed to be no enemy on our heels, and after hours of sweating into tunics already soaked by rain, a thick black line appeared against the lip of the horizon.

It was the fort.

Unable to contain the release of nervous energy, a young voice spoke up as we passed beneath the welcoming gateway: ‘Piece of piss.’ And then he laughed.

I couldn’t blame him for his relief. We had put our heads into a bear’s jaw and survived. With what seemed like little loss to ourselves, we had killed, and we had captured.

I looked at those prisoners, now visible in the torchlight. Most shook with nerves; a reek of piss and shit came from them.

‘Bring the prisoners to me,’ Malchus ordered. As he paced the fort’s dirt, rain dripped from his helmet’s brim, framing a face filled with hate. His eyes were ablaze as he took in the pathetic sight of his foe. ‘You wanted to get in here, you goat-fucking cunts?’ he taunted them. ‘Well, welcome. Make yourselves at home! We’re going to have lots of fun together.’

I looked at the miserable captives, and knew that their lives had run their course.

So be it. My comrades were safe for another night, and my concern was for no one but them.

Such was war.

As the prisoners were led away by fresh soldiers of the garrison, the men of the raiding party were formed up and counted off by Malchus and his optio. In the shadows beneath the wall and between buildings, nervous civilians looked for the faces of their loved ones.

‘We didn’t lose a single man!’ Malchus announced to a cheer. ‘Archers, get back to your part of camp. Nineteenth Legion, great job, boys! We pulled on Arminius’s balls tonight. He’s going to be fucking sore in the morning. Dismissed.’

Men laughed and smiled as they fell out of the ranks, seeking out comrades with whom to share their war stories. Spared our own casualties, the tales were told with excitement and humour. I overhead these snippets as I sought out my own comrades.

‘You should have seen his face when he woke up!’ one soldier laughed. ‘Old bastard shat himself! Fucking stank! Bet no one will be tryin’ to move into that tent.’

His comrade howled with mirth. ‘How many d’ya kill?’

‘At least three. I left one with his own dagger in his guts. Not goin’ to be a good mornin’ for ’im.’

That tale, like so many of the others, ended in glee. I wasn’t smiling myself – I was looking for Stumps, worried that he had tagged along on the raid without permission, and would not have been counted in the tally.

I let loose a sigh of relief when I found him leaning back against the wall, shielded from the elements.

‘Come on,’ I told him, offering a hand. ‘Let’s get back to the block before we get cold.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m knackered. Just leave me here for a nap.’

‘You didn’t come this far to die of the cold. Get up,’ I ordered, at the same time hauling him to his feet so that my friend’s face was inches from my own, and close enough that I could smell the wine on his breath.

‘Are you drunk?’

He shrugged. ‘Only an idiot like you volunteers for that stuff sober. Course I was fucking drunk. And I intend to get back that way. All that fucking running knocked me sober.’

‘Dry kit and food first,’ I told him, leading off towards our barrack block.

Brando and Folcher were already there. Stripped of their equipment and wet clothing, wrapped in dry cloaks, they were beginning to clean the mud from their equipment and the blood from their blades.