Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

And so I ran. I ran from the camp and into the open ground between the tents and trees. This space was now a hunting ground, tribesmen whooping with glee as they chased down the fugitives who had dared set foot in their camp a second time. The whistle was gone, replaced by screams and the drumming of hooves as a half-dozen horsemen whirred amidst the chaos, chopping blades into exposed backs and driving spears into heaving chests.

It was a nightmare and a blur. I ran with blinkers, my sight and focus on nothing but the blackness of trees that offered at least the smallest chance of survival. Why did I survive the massacre in the open ground where others did not? Why had I come through such things before, when many had fallen? I could not speak to that. Maybe the name that Arminius had given me was true. Maybe I was the lucky one. Whatever the reason, I plunged into the barbed bushes of the forest as if it were the most inviting Mediterranean waters.

Caught up in the easy slaughter of the open ground, the trees seemed empty of Germans. I took no chances and moved at a crouch towards the rally point that I was certain must be deserted.

Cries of pain and barked orders echoed through the branches as I quickly stalked my way to be clear of the carnage. I hoped that Brando had had the time to get clear before the enemy were fully roused, but what of the rest of my section? I hadn’t set eyes on them since I had turned to the first tent, and Folcher had moved to the flap.

Folcher. One moment he had been alive and vital, the next he was dead. I had seen his end, and yet I hadn’t. The memory was so vivid, and yet a blur.

I shook my head. Now wasn’t the time to mourn him. I was unarmed and with an enemy army at my back. So far as I knew I was the only survivor from the century. If I allowed myself to stop and to consider what that meant, then I would not live through the night. Despair would overcome me.

The sounds of battle – of massacre – died as the wall of trees grew behind me. Soon I reached the rally point. I forced out a breath, telling myself that it was only what I had expected. What I was accustomed to. I was alone, I thought.

But then I heard the sound behind me, the slightest scrape of steel.

There was someone in the trees.

I was being hunted.

I held my position, and trusted my instincts. I was being hunted, and I would let myself be caught.

‘How did you know?’ Malchus whispered, slipping through shadows to join me at my side.

‘I can smell soap on you, sir,’ I answered honestly.

‘I sent the rest of them back,’ Malchus explained.

From his tone, I took it that ‘the rest of them’ were pitifully few.

‘You can catch them up,’ he told me.

‘What are you doing, sir?’

‘I’ll take my chances here. More of the boys could be lying low.’

His tone betrayed his true feelings, but Malchus was an honourable officer. He was not about to abandon hope for his men.

‘Listen,’ he instructed me, and we lapsed into silence, attempting to distinguish the sounds of the forests from the noise of the enemy camp, now fully roused. A few cries of pain echoed in the night, but largely what we could hear was the mumble of raised voices.

The enemy would be organizing search parties, I was certain. I could only hope that they would wait for the dawn, cautious in case the attack had been a ruse to draw them on to the blades of a larger force.

After a while, Malchus spoke. ‘There. Listen.’

I heard it. Footsteps. They were timid and careful. Not the sound of a German warrior flushed with victory.

‘Wait here.’

The centurion returned soon. With him was a legionary. His silhouette was alien to me, and I knew that he was not of my own section. He was injured, his breathing shallow as he clutched at his shoulder.

I had questions that I burned to ask him, the need to know the fate of my comrades gnawing at my chest, but I held my tongue, placing our survival first. Malchus left again, and returned with another soldier. The third time that the centurion left my side, he returned alone.

‘I don’t think there’s anyone else,’ he announced quietly to straining ears. ‘Follow me.’

We turned our backs on the victorious chants of the Germans, and slid into the black undergrowth.

We followed the cover of trees for as long as we were able. When we broke into open ground, Malchus was blunt in his orders.

‘We’re not going to take the track. Whether they attack our boys or not, there’re going to be cavalry scouts out there. We’ll make best speed through the fields. That means we fucking run. If we’re out here when daylight breaks, then we’re dead.’

No one commented.

‘Dump your mail in that ditch. I’ll make sure the quartermaster doesn’t bill you for the equipment loss,’ Malchus joked darkly. ‘Let’s go.’

So began hours of burning legs, aching muscles and scorched throats. Running through the night was abject misery, but no man complained, for what was the choice? Instead, I tried to do what Linza had told me. I tried to think about life, and not death. I promised myself that if we made the fort, then I would not wait until murder struck to see her again. That I would meet her friendship with my own.

‘You’re doing good, lads,’ Malchus encouraged us. ‘We’re getting close. Listen. There’s the river. Not even a couple of miles to go. We’ll make it; just keep going.’

I had to marvel at our leader. After the bloodshed and despite the exertion, his tone was calm, his breath steady. Malchus was a born warrior and leader. Perhaps, if the three legions that had entered the forest had been commanded by this man, then the bodies of more than fifteen thousand would not have been picked over by crows. But what chance was there of that? Malchus was not a senator. He was a soldier who had fought his way up the ladder, each step a testament to his prowess as a killer. Rome’s borders held and grew due to men like him, and yet the warrior would be no more welcome in the senate than a dog. Malchus was a tool that fit a purpose, and though the upper classes would laud him and heap praise on his armoured shoulders, he would never be seen as anything but a pawn to the men who controlled Rome. And yet, I knew deep down, he would die for them and their city.

Why were we soldiers so blind and obedient?

‘The fort,’ Malchus announced, jolting me out of my mutinous thoughts. ‘Made it, lads.’

With salvation in sight, nervous bursts of laughter broke out amongst us. Despite the death that we had left behind, relief at having survived overtook us, and I saw the white of smiles in the darkness.

Malchus announced himself to the guards on the gatehouse, and confirmed the night’s watchword. ‘Where’s the raiding party?’ he then asked.

The confused reply left me sick.

‘It’s not you?’

There was a moment of heavy silence. I thought I heard Malchus’s teeth grate.

‘Get inside,’ he said to me. ‘Get these men seen by a surgeon. I’m going back to find the others.’

‘I can come with you, sir,’ I offered, my relief overtaken by guilt as the centurion turned me down.

‘I move faster alone. Get them to the surgeon, and then report to the prefect. He’ll need briefing,’ Malchus ordered, and with those words he was lost to the night.

I broke the cohort commander’s instructions as soon as the gates opened and we were met with the torchlight and nervous faces of the guard.

‘Where’s the rest of you?’ a salted centurion asked, his eye appraising wounds and the blood on our skin.

‘I need to brief the prefect, sir,’ I told the officer. ‘Can your men see these two to the hospital?’