Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

Immediately, the men around me either drew breaths or forced them out, muscles tightening as they realized what the block implied, shoulders then sagging as they remembered they were safe within the ranks.

The square was as silent and unkind as the clouded sky.

Caedicius stepped forwards. ‘I told you I wanted discipline,’ he began, his deep voice booming and bouncing from the cold wooden buildings that surrounded us. ‘I told you this. I told you how we should behave as Romans. How we needed to behave to survive.

‘You have failed me.’ He spoke sadly. ‘You have failed yourselves. But worst of all, you have failed Rome.’

A long silence held over the square then, broken only by unruly children who shuffled irritably in the arms of their parents. Gripped by cold, a baby at the far end of the square began to wail. It was a long, plaintive cry. When Malchus stepped forwards, I wondered if he was enjoying the child’s discomfort.

‘These prisoners’, Malchus began, his voice cutting over the cries of the baby, ‘have been seeking to profit through selling and trading rations that were intended for the garrison as a whole. For that—’ He stopped then as the baby doubled its efforts. ‘Get that fucking baby off my parade square!’ he roared, and I saw a woman run from the ranks. Despite the imminent death, or because of it, a ripple of laughter broke out amongst the soldiers.

Malchus heard it. ‘You do not fucking laugh!’ he bellowed at the assembled troops, his hand pointed like a blade. ‘You do not speak! You do not eat unless you are ordered to! You do not shit, until you are ordered to! This is what happens when you think of yourself first, and not Rome!’ He swept out his arm. At the gesture, a limp form was dragged forwards by two soldiers.

Plancus. The man’s neck dropped heavily on to the chopping block. Perhaps fear had taken over his limbs, for any fight seemed to have left him. More than likely, Malchus had already beaten every inch of his body.

Prefect Caedicius stepped forwards. After a look at the shaking man before him, he addressed his words to the parade. ‘Legionary Plancus is guilty of stealing rations from his legion during a time of war and siege. For this crime, he is sentenced to death. Centurion Malchus, carry out the sentence.’

Malchus drew the blade. I could only imagine the look of savage contentment on his taut face.

I could have looked away then, or shut my eyes. I don’t know why I didn’t. Instead, I watched Malchus bring the longsword over in a looping arc. Instantly I – like every other seasoned soldier in the ranks – knew that it was a bad stroke.

The blade bit across the back of Plancus’s shoulders. A hideous scream cut through the assembled ranks like a chariot’s scythed blades.

Malchus pulled his weapon free of flesh, and I had no doubt that he was smiling now, exacting his vengeance. He was too good a swordsman for such a poor stroke, and the look on Caedicius’s face told me that he knew it too. I saw the prefect’s lips move, and I wondered if he was urging the man to finish the job quickly.

The blade swung again. This time it bit the neck, but the strike was weak. There was no scream, and I expected Plancus’s spine had been broken. The man yet lived, though, and his gurgled coughs spat out across the cold dirt.

Caedicius spoke to Malchus again. The words were hidden, but there was no mistaking the urgency in his face.

Malchus swung. It was a beautiful strike, and in its arc was delivered a message: those who crossed Malchus would die terribly for it. I could only imagine what restraint it took the man to hold back from kicking the severed head across the square, and hacking the body to pieces. Instead, Plancus’s leaking body was loaded on to a stretcher and carried clear.

‘Next one,’ Malchus called.

My stomach knotted into a ball of stone. Blood beat against my skull. Finally, I chanced a look at Stumps – my comrade’s face was white. He was no fool, and the plot of this play was now obvious. Stumps knew that Titus could be the next man to kneel before the bloodied block.

‘Please, no,’ I heard him murmur through shaking teeth.

His wish was granted. It was Metella that they brought forwards. She carried herself like the bravest of soldiers, and as she approached the block, she sent a stream of violent spittle towards her executioner.

‘Try that on me, you bastard coward!’ she boomed at Malchus. ‘Easy to kill someone when they’re on their knees.’

‘Be silent!’ Caedicius ordered. ‘Die with some decency, woman.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ Metella snarled instead. ‘I’ll see you all soon, anyway!’ she shouted as she was shoved hurriedly to her knees. ‘This fort’s fucked! No one’s coming for you, darlings! You’ll starve to death here, or die out there!’

Malchus wasted no more time in shutting her up, shoving Metella’s throat against the block with such force that the woman’s final words were choked from her.

This time, the stroke was quick; Metella’s head rolled across the dirt, crimson splattering the frosted floor in a final act of defiance.

Plancus’s death had caused revulsion in the ranks. Metella’s had brought fear – not from her death, but from her prophecy. She had voiced what all but the most optimistic in the fort feared deep down in their souls: that the fort was beyond help.

Caedicius could smell the panic. ‘Do not heed the words of a criminal,’ he began. ‘No one will starve here. There is a plan of action! It is a secret one, but something that you will all hear of soon, I promise. For now, continue in your duties. Continue to uphold the traditions and expectations of Rome!’

There was a finality to those words, and as I heard them, the first spear-point of hope began to push its way into my chest.

I felt eyes on me. It was Stumps. We shared a look: Titus?

Malchus paced forward to stand beside his prefect. My heart caught in my throat. I knew that the next words from the killer’s mouth would mean the death or salvation of my friend.

‘Parade!’ Malchus growled. Time seemed to stand still as his first command echoed in the crisp air.

‘Parade!’ the executioner called again.

‘Dismissed!’

I have marched across nations to war, and I have crossed a continent to escape one, but I have never felt a march so long as the one that followed our dismissal from the executions. The few hundred yards from parade ground to barrack block felt like an eternity.

I had almost collapsed in relief when the order to dismiss had passed through Malchus’s snarling lips. The cohort commander and his bloodied sword had trailed the prefect from the parade square, the prisoner’s escort following in their wake, stretchered bodies carried behind them. In none of this was there any sight of Titus.

Returning to the barrack block, I felt as though the regulation marching pace was like wading through tar. I wanted nothing more than to break ranks and sprint, but I had no choice but to force my worry back into my chest.

Stumps, having little idea of my conversation on the walls with H, had none of the same concerns, seeing only that Titus had seemingly escaped from death’s grasp once more.

‘He’s a slippery fucker.’ He beamed at me as we marched. ‘Like a fucking eel, he is. Wriggles his way into and out of everything. Shame about Metella though. I liked her.’

‘Me too,’ Brando agreed. ‘She went out well.’

‘By fuck she did, didn’t she?’ Stumps laughed with pride. ‘Spat right in Malchus’s face, the cunt!’

‘Keep your voice down,’ I hissed.

He gave me an apologetic look. ‘She did die well though. Bigger balls on her than most men.’