Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

One of the veterans shrugged. ‘That’s what everyone’s saying.’

‘Who’s they?’ I pushed him.

‘Fuck’s sake, I don’t know. Everyone. I won’t bother saying anything next time, if you’re just gonna grill me over it.’

I brushed past the man towards the battlement’s stairs. I moved with speed because I knew that the soldier was wrong. He was wrong, and the girl’s hair would be blond. She would be German.

She would be Linza.

‘Felix,’ Folcher called after me as I reached the bottom step and broke into a run. ‘Where are you going?’

I ignored him. I ran past our barrack block, not wanting to waste a single second by stripping off my kit. Instead I carried my shield and javelin as my sandals slapped against the dirt. My haste and my armour drew looks of flushed panic from the civilians and curious frowns from soldiers, but I ignored them all as I concentrated on finding Linza. By the time that I had sprinted to her block on the west side of the fort, sweat was running into my eyes and my chest was heaving beneath the heavy chain mail.

‘Who was the dead girl?’ I asked a crone who backed away at the sight of my desperate eyes.

‘Where’s Linza?’ I shot at a pair of frightened children. ‘She’s Batavian. Linza? Do you know her? Linza?’

‘Felix?’

I turned.

She stood in the alleyway, a bucket of water held in both hands, a look of confusion on her face. She was alive.

‘Linza,’ I breathed, my relief followed instantly by regret at jumping to morbid conclusions, ‘I was worried you—’

She sliced off my feeble words: ‘Are you my friend?’ she demanded, catching me off guard, her blue eyes now lost beneath a frown.

‘Of… of course,’ I stumbled.

Linza placed the bucket down. Her fingers ran through blond hair dirtied by labour. ‘You only come to look for me when I’m dead?’ she finally accused. There was no heat in her tone, only disappointment.

I said nothing. I had nothing to say, because it was true.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, cursing my stupidity. Cursing my warped mind. ‘I…’

Why did I think this way? Act this way? I had thought about this woman for days. She was here all of that time, literally trapped within the same four walls as I was. Why had I made no attempt to see her – to talk to her – until I thought that she was a cut-up body dumped in a latrine?

What the fuck was wrong with me?

‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, my words heavy with self-reproach.

My apology was honest. Linza saw that. Her frown softened, but she held her distance.

‘Do you only talk to dead people?’ she pressed me sadly, before realizing that the handful of civilians were watching our exchange avidly. ‘Come with me.’ She gestured towards a building, tired of their scrutiny.

I followed her away from prying eyes. ‘I didn’t come here to upset you,’ I told her once we were in the privacy of a wooden awning.

‘Do I look upset?’ She shook her head. ‘I am worried.’

‘I can teach you how to look after yourself, and how to fight?’ I offered quickly, desperate to be a help and not a burden. ‘And I know a safer place for you to stay. My friend is the quarter—’

‘I am worried for you ,’ Linza confided. ‘ You , Felix, when you run around looking for death. Looking for hurt. You have friends. They are alive and they are here, but when do you live with them? When do you think about living , and not dying ?’

‘I—’

‘Shut up,’ she told me gently. ‘I don’t want you to speak. I want you to think. I want you to enjoy.’

‘But—’

‘Fuck!’ She laughed with frustration. ‘Shut up, Felix!’ she ordered me, waving her arms to drive home her point. ‘I am not stupid. I know I can die here. I know I can die out there. We can all die. We will all die. I don’t need to think about it every. Single. Hour. And neither do you,’ she offered with a smile.

I had the sense then to hold my tongue. Silence fell, and with it, unease. I felt as though I had walked into an ambush. A killing ground. I was a yard away from this woman who had cost me sleep and caused me panic. If she were an enemy, I could cross that space and kill her before she breathed. Being who she was, that yard was as great an obstacle as the blue sea where I had sat on the pier and dreamed.

‘You remind me of someone,’ I admitted, thinking back on those blissful days.

‘You too,’ she slowly confessed.

I didn’t dare meet her pale eyes. ‘Your husband?’

I saw the smallest of nods in the corner of my vision.

‘Who?’ she then asked as she reached out, her fingers falling on to my shoulder, her gaze irresistibly drawing my own.

Looking up, I saw comfort in blue eyes. Comfort and love. It was not born of lust, but kinship, the recognition of a fellow wounded soul. That compassion took me back to a life before war and suffering. To a time where I had looked into eyes like hers, and known that each breath, each touch, was a blessing to be cherished.

‘I’ll tell you,’ I promised.

And I did.

The century stood in formation. Afternoon was turning to dusk, and, as was the wartime ritual within the legions, all fighting men of the garrison would man the walls or wait as fully equipped reserves should the Germans choose to appear and attack in the twilight. No man expected such an eventuality, but no commander wanted to be the one who overlooked the procedure and woke to a blade in his guts.

I was exhausted. Opening my soul to Linza and telling her of my own lost love had drained me more than any forced march could do. My head felt muggy and heavy; my shoulders ached beneath my mail. I was exhausted, but despite the fatigue, I felt fresh. As if, in some inexplicable way, I had accomplished something. Like the times that I had left the gymnasium battered and bruised, I knew that I would wake in the morning and feel the pain, but that ache would be a welcome signal that I had improved myself.

I looked to the front of the formation. Centurion H was there and caught my eye. He smiled at me, hopeful that I would vouch for him later that evening so that he could enjoy a night of ‘wine and tits’ at the enterprise of Titus and Metella.

Suddenly, I saw the conspiratorial look on the centurion’s face change, the smile slipping as the brow beneath his helmet creased with question. H was no stickler for discipline, and so I allowed my neck the slightest twist to follow his look.

Centurion Malchus approached with purpose. The cohort commander was dressed for war, his gaunt face tight, shoulders rigid. He was clearly in the mood for killing.

‘Century,’ H called to his troops. ‘Atten-shun!’

Malchus made a hurried gesture, and H turned his back so that the hushed conversation between the officers was screened from their men. It was a short briefing, and when the centurions turned back to face the formation, H’s face was as grim as the man’s beside him.

‘This isn’t good,’ I heard Stumps whisper.

‘Fifth Century.’ Malchus spoke in a tone of iron. ‘In the last two nights there’s been three rapes and two murders in this fort. It’s a fucking disgrace, and shits all over the discipline that makes us who we are. We are Romans, not barbarians, and if you want to act like animals, then there will be fucking consequences!’

My stomach tightened at the implied threat. The imposed discipline of Rome’s legions could be harsh, quick and lethal, and I wondered what measure Malchus was threatening, and why. It was true that rape was common in the world, and murder a fixture, but it seemed now that Prefect Caedicius was attempting to stamp out all and any forms of unrest. The prefect was charged with bringing the fort through the siege, and to do so he required strict order. In the Roman Empire, that order was bought through blood. With every other man in the ranks, I awaited Malchus’s next words with a knot in my guts.