Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

I expected Titus to arrive and to squeeze the life from his oldest living friend. I was wrong; his business partner Plancus hobbled into the room in his place.

‘Titus has to reissue equipment and organize the funeral rites,’ the old veteran informed us. ‘Two of the wounded died under the surgeon.’

‘Was one called Statius?’ I asked.

‘Doesn’t sound familiar. Anyway, he said he’ll come see you when he can.’

Then, equipment cleaned, and exhausted by exertion and grief, we fell back on to our bunks. At first I thought it was a dream when I felt the woman’s presence beside me, her arm over my shoulder, but then I saw blue eyes beneath strands of blond hair.

‘Sleep,’ Linza told me.

I closed my eyes.

When I woke, Linza had gone.

Daylight lit the room, but Brando and Micon snored on. Stumps fidgeted fitfully in a sleep that I was certain was full of bloodshed.

In search of water, I stepped outside of the barrack block. The fort was eerily quiet. The sight of the ravaged century had sent a shock of fear throughout the place. Arminius had pulled his troops from under the walls’ gaze and, out of sight, they had been out of mind for many of the fort’s occupants. There could be no such blissful ignorance now. Not whilst graves were being dug. Not whilst the unsanctioned families of the soldiery wailed over the loss of their loved ones.

I caught the eye of a veteran of my own century. A survivor, like myself. I had no idea of his name, but what did it matter? In many ways, this stranger was closer to me than the family I had been born into.

‘Hard to sleep, isn’t it?’ the veteran offered.

‘Thirsty,’ I told him.

‘I’ve got wine?’

And so, moments later, we sat in the shelter of the wall’s lee. We didn’t talk, not even to ask each other’s names. We simply drank, slowly, comforted that we were not the only creature to be suffering. We sat there until a knot of soldiers approached, bandaged and grim. Centurion H was at the head of them.

‘It’s good to see you, sir,’ I told the man honestly. His smile was gone. Instead, H’s lips were drawn into a grimace. Half his century had not returned, and this was not the kind of officer who looked for glory or opportunity in that loss. His clouded eyes told me as much.

‘Your man Statius is still in the hospital,’ the centurion informed me. ‘Balbus, too. His corruption’s getting worse. I don’t know when you’ll get him back. To be honest, Felix, I don’t know if there’s a century any more. I expect that we’ll be split up amongst the others,’ he concluded sadly.

I noticed a red stain that was spreading through the centurion’s linen bandage. ‘I don’t want to overstep, sir,’ I offered, ‘but shouldn’t you be in the hospital, too?’

H slowly shook his head, and then looked at the men around us. They took his hint, and left.

‘I’m telling you this because, after all you’ve been through, you deserve to hear it. Last night was a disaster, Felix, nothing less. We can’t afford to take losses like that, which means no more raids. No more proactive patrols, or attacks. We’re going to sit here in this fort until we’re rescued, or until we starve.’

‘Are supplies that low?’

‘They will be. German winter’s harsh. Have you seen many cats and dogs around recently? People are preparing already. Everyone’s about to go hungry. That’s why the prefect’s ordered that we release the prisoners we captured last week.’

‘Release them?’ I asked, surprised at the mercy.

The centurion shrugged. ‘Better they eat the enemy’s rations than ours.’

I understood that logic well enough, but the clemency confused me. Why not kill them, and let them feed the crows? Dead men didn’t eat.

H read my thoughts. ‘It’s not as simple as that, Felix.’ The man shook his head. ‘We’re taking a burden of hungry mouths from us and putting them on to the goat-fuckers.’

I licked nervously at my cracked lips, knowing what was coming next. ‘But we’re not about to hand them soldiers, are we?’ I asked.

H met my own dark eyes. ‘Caedicius wants to take their hands, Felix,’ he confided in me, spitting at the dirt. ‘And he wants what’s left of our century to be the butchers.’

We formed up in full battle dress and marched to the centre of the camp and its parade square. The ranks were silent and sullen, men grieving over the loss of their comrades from the raid not yet a day old. It was this grief that Prefect Caedicius and Centurion Malchus hoped to tap into. The opportunity to give men who had been beaten – for what else was the botched raid but an abject failure? – the chance to strike back at the faces of their enemy. To draw blood, and bring forth screams. To avenge the comrades that they had left behind.

And this demonstration was not only for those who had taken part in the failed assault. Leaving a skeleton guard force on the walls, the entirety of the garrison had been formed up in ranks to watch the coming punishments. Civilians, whether drawn by order or by morbid fascination, jostled for space to witness the proceedings.

There were ten German prisoners. Naked, haggard men, on their knees, heads hanging, their bodies a map of torture from where Malchus and his men had extracted their information some days ago. Once proud warriors were now a pathetic sight, drained of all spirit and humanity.

Our century drew to a halt in front of them. Malchus, as imposing as ever, quickly strode forward to our ranks, tossing four pieces of rope to soldiers at random. One such length was dropped by Micon, but the young soldier scrabbled quickly to pick it up. I noticed that there was a noose at one end.

‘Those of you with rope, step forward,’ Malchus ordered, his eyes like caves. ‘Take an arm or a leg and put the noose around wrist or ankle.

‘This one first.’ He pointed to a fair-haired German who was silently weeping. So timid and shattered from captivity was this enemy that it took only moments to subdue him: the ropes around his limbs pulled outwards under Malchus’s instruction so that the German was spread-eagled on the parade square’s dirt, his wriggling limbs held fast by Micon and the other soldiers. As if the gods were watching and casting judgment, the skies chose that moment to open, and a light rain began to patter against our armour and the victim’s naked skin.

A squat legionary then walked forwards and handed Malchus an axe. Malchus used the tool to gesture at an arm, and the burly soldier knotted rope around the elbow – he was creating a tourniquet. Once finished, the squat soldier stepped away, and Malchus spat into the face of his enemy. Then the axe swung down. With a sickening chop the lower arm came free, and Micon, who had been holding that rope, stumbled backwards as the anchor of flesh was severed.

The screams came moments later. They were universal in language, and dreadful. Tired of the sound, Malchus drew his dagger and knelt over the man. Within a breath, a tongue lay discarded on the floor.

Malchus snorted. ‘Tongue first for the rest of them. Can’t hold their pain like men, the fucking scum. I suppose if you fuck enough goats, you start to bleat like them.’

The centurion’s taunt was followed by laughter from the hardest of his men, and the most nervous – those who were keen to hide their own perceived weakness behind the terror of others.

I looked at Micon, who held a rope with the severed hand at its end. I tried to read the boy’s expression, wondering about his sanity. In the forest he had turned green at such sights. Now his face was without a trace of emotion. Why should I have expected differently? Only weeks ago, he had seen his best friend die beside him. He had seen men and women killed in the most unimaginable and horrendous ways. This teenage veteran had never known a woman, and yet a severed hand and cut-out tongue were now nothing out of the ordinary to him.