Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

‘Felix?’ he asked, puzzled, seeing a ghost. ‘How…’ His words trailed off. Instead, the Batavian embraced me.

I looked quickly for the other faces of my section, shrugging off the mystery of arrows that protruded from the bloody wounds of some of the raid’s survivors.

‘Felix!’ I heard, and in the scrum of bodies I turned to find Stumps, his arm over the shoulder of a bloodied Micon.

I pulled them both close to me, their heads touching mine. I was not the only soldier who let loose tears at this reunion between comrades.

‘Micon.’ I was worried, seeing the blood thick on his arms and face. ‘Are you hurt?’

The boy soldier shook his head. ‘Not mine,’ he mumbled.

‘How did you get back?’ Stumps managed. ‘We waited, but…’ His voice trailed away, racked with guilt.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I told him, meaning it. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Folcher’s dead,’ Stumps told me, his eyes on the fort’s dirt. ‘Dog, too.’

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes.

‘Dog.’ I breathed out. ‘How?’

‘Took a spear in his chest,’ my friend told me, swallowing at the memory. ‘It was over for him quickly.’

‘Statius?’ I asked.

‘Around here somewhere. Arrow sliced his arm.’

‘An arrow?’

Stumps’s face turned grey as he shot a look at the Syrian archers. These men were unbloodied, their heads bowed. Under command of a Roman centurion, they were being quickly shunted away. For the first time now, I noticed that abusive cries in Latin followed in their wake.

‘Sleep with your eyes open!’ one veteran of the Nineteenth called after them. ‘You’re gonna be waking with open throats!’

‘What happened?’ I asked Stumps, noticing now half a dozen Romans being loaded on to stretchers, the shafts of arrows sticking out of their flesh. With horror, I saw that Centurion H was amongst them.

‘When we left the rally point, H ran us to where the archers were waiting,’ Stumps explained, his voice dark. ‘He called out his part of the watchword, and we got an arrow back instead. It hit someone, they screamed, and then the next moment there were arrows everywhere.’

I swore, imagining the chaos. The terror.

‘Eventually they realized what they were doing,’ Stumps concluded, spitting pathetically on to the dirt. ‘But by then we had men down everywhere, the fucking lizards.’ He snarled.

‘Fifth Century!’ came the shouted order, cutting short my friend’s tirade. ‘Fall into formation. Don’t worry about sections, just get into three ranks. Move!’

The words had come from Malchus, and he cajoled the weary soldiers into obeying his orders. Within moments, those of the raiding party who could still stand were formed up in formation before him. Casting a quick eye over the ranks, I estimated that less than half of the century had escaped death or wounds to the point where they could still stand.

‘Century will form open order,’ the cohort commander then called. ‘In open order, march!’

The front rank took a pace forwards, the rear a pace backwards. Now, there was space for Malchus to walk by the men one by one. As he came closer, I heard words of encouragement. Praise for their deeds. He would not let the survivors of the raid slink away into the barracks like whipped dogs. He would remind them that they were soldiers. Killers.

‘Show me your blade,’ I heard him ask a young soldier, congratulating the young man on the steel painted red with German gore. ‘You made him dance, didn’t you?’ Malchus encouraged him. Then: ‘Did you lose a friend tonight?’ he asked.

‘I did, sir,’ the boy answered, attempting to rouse his courage.

‘Remember him every time you ram that blade into German guts. Make them pay for it. Every one. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And what about you?’ Malchus asked Stumps beside me. ‘Missing fingers and an ear? You’re not a stranger to this, are you, soldier? Show this young lad your blade. Show him what it means to be a man in this army.’

For a moment, Stumps did nothing.

‘Did I speak into the wrong ear?’ Malchus asked, an edge of amusement to his iron tone. ‘Show him your blade.’

Stumps drew the short sword from its sheath; it was clean.

‘I like to stick them on the javelin, sir.’ Stumps covered, feigning confidence. ‘I like to see them wriggle on it.’

‘Good man.’ Malchus grinned, slapping him on his shoulder.

And then he came to me. We exchanged no words, just a look. A look from veteran to veteran. A look which acknowledged we had been fucked that night, and that the chances of the fort’s survival had ebbed along with the blood from those men who had been lost beyond the walls, and those who now screamed in the hospital as the surgeons set to their gruesome work.

It wasn’t long before Malchus had spoken with each man, and returned to the front of the formation.

‘We lost brothers tonight,’ he told us, without a hint of weakness in his voice. ‘We’ll lose more before this is all over. Being a soldier is about suffering, boys. It’s about these nights. What separates us from every other army in the world is what we do when we bleed. Others will run and hide from it. Not us. We’ll lick the blood from our blades, and we’ll go after these cunts again. We’ll go after them harder. We’ll go after them without mercy. By the time this war is over, every one of the Germans in that camp will be dead. Every one of their women will be raped. Every one of their children will be slaves. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, sir,’ came the chorus of croaking voices.

‘Your centurion’s in the hospital, and your optio died with glory,’ Malchus went on. ‘We’ll restructure the century, but for now, go to your barrack rooms. Eat and sleep, but don’t you dare think about doing either until your kit is cleaned, and you’re ready to fight again, understood?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Good. Fall out.’

Walking back to the barrack block, I felt as though I were waist-deep in water and my legs were lead. Beside me, the men of my section moved like similar ghouls.

My section.

What was left of it? Brando, head on his chest, the Batavian grieving for his friend Folcher. Micon and Stumps were unhurt, at least in body. I suspected that the blood-free blade of Stumps was caused by an injury just as dangerous as any flesh wound. Balbus was already hospitalized with the corruption to his hand, and now Statius had joined him. Dog, a soldier I had liked but had never truly known, had died out of my sight from a German spear. Battle is a brutal blur, and it is fantasy to believe that a soldier witnesses the end of his comrades. As with Dog, the news of their end usually comes from a hushed comment, and sunken eyes.

‘Brando.’ I placed a hand on my friend’s shoulder. I hoped that in that word he would know how I grieved for him, and for Folcher. I hoped that my eyes were enough.

‘He was my best friend, Felix.’ Brando sighed, his big chest heaving. ‘My best friend, and I couldn’t bring him home. I left him in the trees.’

‘You did all you could.’

‘Do you know what they’ll do to his body?’ Brando asked me, exhausted.

We both did.

‘I should have carried him home.’ He meant to the besieged fort that we clung to like limpets to rocks.

‘And died yourself? Folcher wouldn’t have wanted that.’

The Batavian nodded at the truth in my words. ‘But it doesn’t make it easier, does it?’

We cleaned our equipment in silence. Linza came and went to bring bowls of hot water, barley and soup. She spoke to Brando in their native tongue, and I knew that the language was a comfort to him. A tie to the comrade he had lost.