Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

‘Relax, Stumps,’ H smiled. ‘I just want to get shit-faced. Can I buy in on that wine?’

‘Your money’s no good here,’ Titus interjected. ‘The blokes have spoken up about you, sir. You’re my guest. Drink what you like.’

‘You’re a gentleman, for such a scary-looking bastard,’ H conceded, and then laughed. ‘I suppose the wine fits into our daily ration?’

‘There’re forty less mouths to feed, boss.’ Stumps spoke without humour. ‘I don’t know about the Nineteenth, but in the Seventeenth Legion, that ration goes to the lads who made it, so we can give them a good send-off.’

H nodded, solemnly. ‘We do the same, and we’re all Nineteenth now, boys.’ He raised his drink. ‘Here’s to the boys who can’t raise a cup.’

We echoed the toast, and drank deep. Titus poured again, the wine splashing over the brims like bubbling wounds.

‘Another one,’ the big man ordered.

We drank, and then we drank some more. In what seemed like moments, my eyes began to swim, my words catching on my tongue.

‘Tell me more about the desert,’ H pressed Titus when Stumps had revealed something of his friend’s past.

Titus shrugged. ‘Sand and camels.’

‘What about the women?’ H encouraged him. ‘How do they stack up compared to the Germans?’

The big man thought over his answer. ‘They’re slighter. Smaller tits. Dark eyes. Dark hair.’

‘But who fucks better?’ Stumps asked eagerly.

Titus considered for a further moment before answering. ‘The Germans.’

‘Thank the weather for that.’ Brando laughed. ‘It’s so cold here in winter no one wants to keep their clothes off. Get it done wild and fast.’

We laughed at that, wine spilling over our lips and on to our tunics. Only one man sat unmoved.

Statius.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Brando asked the man. ‘You’ve got a face like a donkey’s bollocks. Drink some wine, man. Relax.’

‘Why?’ the Roman asked, simply.

Brando’s thick brow creased. ‘Why? Why the fuck not? Because we could be dead tomorrow, and so enjoy. Enjoy this time.’

There was a chorus of applause at that, cups rapping on tables. I looked at young Micon, and saw that even his dull-witted face was twisted upwards in amusement. He had seen the evidence and learned the lesson: live for the moment.

‘But it’s all bollocks, isn’t it?’ Statius said suddenly and sullenly. ‘Die tomorrow? Yes. And if not tomorrow, then soon. And for what? We’ll die in this fort, or outside of it, and for what?’

The question was met by silence, and dark looks. Micon was the first to move, slurping noisily at his cup. It was Titus who opened his mouth to speak.

‘What would you like to die for?’ he asked plainly.

Statius had no reply.

‘There must be something?’ Titus shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘You want to die for fame? For money?’

Statius shook his head. ‘I don’t want to die at all,’ he admitted, his eyes on his drink.

‘Picked the wrong profession then, didn’t you?’ Stumps scoffed, before a look from Titus shut him up.

‘No one cheats death,’ H put in, his words slurred from wine and blood loss from his still-leaking wound.

‘All right then,’ Statius conceded. ‘I don’t want to die for this.’ He gestured at his uniform. ‘I don’t want to die so someone can put a mark on a map. I don’t want to die so a senator gets new lands. I don’t want to die so a general can have poets suck his cock and say what a brilliant mind he had, losing only hundreds of men like us, and not thousands.’

‘You joined the army,’ Stumps sneered. He couldn’t help himself. ‘The army didn’t join you.’

‘Yes, I joined the fucking army,’ Statius snapped back. ‘I joined the army because I wanted food in my stomach. I joined because I didn’t want to die a beggar in the streets.’

Stumps was like a dog with a bone. ‘You have a roof over your head now, don’t you?’ he demanded. ‘Food? Even if it is half-rations.’

‘Yeah, and for what price? So that I can watch friends die? So that I can be skinned alive by the goat-fuckers? How many friends did you lose in the forest, Stumps? You’re not screaming the barracks down and getting pissed every night because you love what you do.’

‘You have no fucking idea,’ Stumps warned darkly.

‘Then enlighten me,’ Statius pressed. Somehow his fear of death had given him the confidence to confront the absurdity of his position. ‘Are you going to be one of these lying bastards who tells the stories of smiles and laughter as we march off to get fucking slaughtered? I may not have seen much, but I’ve seen enough to know that the only ones who talk that way are the ones who have never drawn a blade! Three legions gone in that forest, Stumps! Felix, you were there. Are you telling me that you went through it all thinking of glory for Rome? Do you wake up screaming thinking of eagles and triumphs?’

‘Of course I fucking don’t. And you know nothing about it, so hold your tongue now. We came here to remember friends,’ I warned.

Statius shook his head. ‘Bollocks.’

Titus saw me rise, but held out a hand – he wanted me to let the man speak.

‘You came here to forget,’ Statius insisted. ‘To drink, and forget. You all know it’s a fucking sham. Glory is just something they invented to suck us in. If it were true, then why would they need to enlist us for twenty years and more? Who’d want to leave if it was like they said it was?’

No one answered. I could see on the faces of my friends that they hated Statius for his words, but that hate was born from the realization that, in some aspects at least, he was right.

‘Are you honestly telling me you’re all right with all of this?’ the man pressed on. ‘Do you not see how fucking ridiculous it is?’

Titus then stepped in, placing his cup on the table, his words measured. ‘Of course we do. But the world is a hard place. Open your head a bit, and you won’t see the army as a prison. You’ll see opportunity.’

‘Easy for you to say, when you’re running the black market,’ Statius sneered.

Titus was unblinking as he delivered his calm threat. ‘You’ve obviously got eyes and ears, and some brains between them. Learn how to keep them all where they should be.’

‘And there’s more to this than money and lands, Statius,’ Brando put in diplomatically. ‘There is something bigger than us all here. We are small parts of greatness. We are parts of Rome.’

‘What do you know about Rome, Brando?’ Statius asked, swirling the red liquid about his cup. ‘I’ll tell you about Rome. Swarms of mosquitos so thick you can walk on them. Streets running with piss and shit. Every month there’s some new fucking disease that’s filling holes in the dirt and taking your family. Rome’s a curse,’ he finished with a cautious eye towards his centurion.

H shrugged. ‘There’s no rank here,’ he said, his tone suggesting that his mind was aligned at least in part with that of his bitter subordinate.

‘You’re wrong, Statius,’ Brando countered, shaking his head. ‘Rome is no curse. The Empire is a cure . My father. My grandfather. They lived in chaos before Batavia was taken into the Empire. The system is flawed, I’ll give you that, but it is a system. It brings law and order. On the frontier, of course, life is hard, but our sacrifice as soldiers means better lives for others.’ There was real passion in the Batavian’s voice. ‘That is why I would give my life for Rome. And that is why Folcher gave his.’

‘Then you’re a fucking idiot,’ Statius mumbled, and I saw Brando’s nostrils flare like an enraged bull’s, his muscles bunching. Perhaps, if Statius had held his next thought within himself, then the bigger man would have let the insult pass.