Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

‘If there’s going to be killing,’ the man snarled, ‘then it’s going to be out there.

‘The prefect wants a raid on the hairy bastards, and this century’s drawn the honour. We march out as soon as it’s dark, and we don’t come back without some heads. Lots of fucking heads.’

‘You heard the cohort commander.’ H stepped forwards after leaving a moment for Malchus’s threatening order to sink in. ‘When I fall you out, section commanders get amongst your blokes. Strip your kit. No shields, no helmets. Blacken up whatever shines. Anything else, sir?’ he asked the cohort commander.

Malchus shook his head. There was nothing but killing on his mind, and so H opened his mouth: ‘Century, falllll out!’

After we made the standing right turn and the formation broke up into shouted commands and hurried whispers, I hustled across to my centurion. H caught my eye, and raised an eyebrow in question.

‘My man, Stumps,’ I began, ‘can he get back to the quartermaster’s?’

H gave an apologetic shake of his head. ‘We need every man in the century for this, Felix. Balbus can’t soldier until further notice, and so your boy is going to have to march out with the rest of us. I’m sorry. I don’t pretend to know what you guys went through in the forest, but orders are…’

I gave a glum nod, resigned.

‘No hard feelings?’ the centurion asked. I knew well enough why he was anxious for my approval, seeing me as the scarred and dangerous veteran who had cut his way out from the enemy trap when almost all others had fallen. Malchus saw the same, thinking me the bloodthirsty hero. If only they fucking knew.

‘Of course not, H.’ I was forgetting rank for a moment, pretty certain that he would approve of me using his nickname.

‘Been a while since I did something like this,’ the man admitted, smiling to cover his nerves. ‘Drew some blood on the walls, but… different when there’s nothing between you and them, isn’t it?’

It was.

‘I should get to my section,’ I said. ‘Good luck tonight.’

‘Look after my lads,’ H told me, offering his hand. I took the strong grip, and then went to join my comrades.

The barrack room was filled with my men and their industry, but talk was reduced to the bare essentials: the requests to pass something out of reach, or to help tighten straps and sharpen blades.

‘You tried to get me off it?’ Stumps greeted me with a little accusation.

I shrugged my armoured shoulders. ‘You’re coming.’

‘You still tried though,’ he grunted. ‘I haven’t forgotten how to soldier, you know.’

Nothing good could come of the conversation, and so I ignored my friend, instead addressing the section as a whole, and repeating the orders that H had issued.

‘When you think you’re done get outside and jump around,’ I then added. ‘Anything loose that makes a noise, strap it down or leave it here.’

‘You didn’t have any casualties last time, did you?’ Statius suddenly piped up. He was slower than the other men in his preparations, and I noticed his eyes had grown a little wider. He reminded me of a rabbit that had caught a scent.

‘We didn’t,’ I confirmed.

‘That was last time,’ Brando grunted. ‘We got them with their trousers down. Tonight won’t be so easy.’

‘Ready or not, we’ll gut them all the same,’ Folcher spoke up confidently. ‘Arminius has gone to fight. He’s left behind the fat and lazy. We’ll gut them, Brando. It will be a good night.’

Brando did not argue, and I could see that both of the Batavians were eager for the raid. They were true warriors, these German-born, and I wondered how long Rome could contain their cousins to the east of the Rhine.

Attempting nonchalance, Statius opened his mouth as he put away his shield. ‘I could go to the hospital, and see if Balbus is fit for duty?’

The idea reeked of malingering, and Stumps recognized the purpose of the words as easily as I had. ‘You’ll strap your sandals up and earn your pay, you mincing little cunt,’ he sneered. ‘Try and pull your half-arsed soldiering out there tonight, and I’ll dry fuck you with this blade.’

‘I was only asking.’ Statius spoke sullenly to the floor.

‘Fifth Century, form up!’ came the inevitable call from outside. ‘Section commanders, get a grip of your blokes. Let’s go!’

‘Here we go then.’ Dog tried to smile, and I felt the eyes of the section turn towards me – some were scared, some were eager, some were vacant, and yet all looked to me for guidance, and survival. Perhaps a great leader would have fired them up with words and promises, but I was not Marcus, Malchus or Titus. I was just me, and I was terrified. What the fuck was there to say?

‘All right,’ I offered to the uncommon band of brothers. ‘Follow me.’

The dry leaves pushed against my face as I edged my way through the copse. Flickering light danced in the distance; the sound of German voices was clear in the still night.

My throat tightened. Nothing about this raid was aligning in our favour. Our last assault had been unexpected, cloaked by heavy rain and wind. Tonight the land was tranquil, the enemy alert. Malchus had reconnoitred the enemy camp, finding no soft underbelly. We were now in the trees because it offered the best chance at concealment, and perhaps a few seconds’ surprise. There had been no talk of abandoning the mission, and when the archers had been left in position to cover our extraction, the faces around me had been grim and sullen beneath the half-moonlight. It was not the place for words, but men clasped hands and squeezed their friends’ shoulders, the comradely gestures an acknowledgment that some of us would not live through the night.

I looked at my own section. They crept beside me through the foliage, lifting feet high to avoid rustling the leaves that had fallen with the approach of winter. Even amongst the trees I could make out their wide eyes in faces darkened by dirt. So familiar were we after hours of nocturnal duty that I could pick out each man by his silhouette. I noticed Brando and Folcher at the fore, the Batavians eager to strike and spill blood.

At our rear was Statius. This was to be his first real taste of combat. He seemed loath to meet it, but who could fault him for that? Likely he was the sanest soldier in the section.

I forced the thought away. Now was the time to think of nothing but the most basic of instincts, and stealth: the placement of sandalled and swathed feet; penetrating looks into darkness; filtering the sounds of danger from a backdrop of nature. Forests are a noisy place, if you stop and listen, but an expert ear would hear death approaching above the creaking of old branches and the taunting crackle of dying leaves.

A hand signal to halt passed down the line. Eventually, the loose formation of soldiers came to a halt. I went on to one knee, the bone pressing into dirt still wet from earlier rains. I swallowed fear, knowing that soon the earth would be enriched. I could only mutter an oath that my men would not be the ones to fertilize the German woodland.

I looked through the last few yards of trees, my vision blocked partly by the tangle of bushes. I swore to myself, knowing that these would hinder my progress when the command to attack came, and I would be forced to run the hundred yards to where the first tents of the enemy’s camp were pitched. Constant roving patrols of German tribesmen rendered stealth impossible once the trees were cleared, and so Malchus had issued orders that were as brutal and simple as his manner.

‘Stay in your sections and sprint to the tents. Put your blade into someone – man, woman or child. When you hear the whistle, move back to the rally point on the other side of the trees.’