Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

A chance at what? I chided myself. Had I forgotten where I was, and who? Even if I survived the reconnaissance of the German force, we would still need to slip by the enemy army eventually. Even the most optimistic soldier in the fort could not expect such a thing to happen smoothly. At some point, there would be bloodshed.

And what if we did survive? What if we did make it to the Rhine? What then? Since Linza had reminded me of the better part of my past – at least, until it had been taken from me – I had forgotten who I was, and fallen into the role of the soldier. The legionary. But the bases on the Rhine were not my final destination; Britain was. Would that change if I were with Linza? Would she love me once we were free of imminent death, and away from the compressed and chaotic world of siege? Would she come with me to Britain if she did?

I had a head and heart full of questions, but only one certainty – I knew that I had failed her.

Knowing that sleep would now evade me, I kept the watch until darkness was falling. Under its blanket we rolled away our own, and H led us westwards. We were like animals now, grunts and looks all that we needed to know our pack leader’s intention.

The ground was cold and hard, and so we made good distance on that second night. H and one of the runners had bands of beads threaded with cords, and these they used to measure our distance in the darkness. To achieve this they had walked a hundred yards within camp, counting the steps it took them to cover the distance. Now in enemy territory, they counted their steps and moved one bead for each hundred yards covered. It was a skill they had practised, and became an automatic rhythm that was as natural as breathing.

I had no beads, but experience of my own had made me a good judge of time and distance. I estimated that we had made fifteen miles that night, putting us roughly halfway between Aliso and the Rhine.

Once more, H led us to a place beneath branches and shrouded by undergrowth. Once more we made our shelter and rested concealed in our hide. My time on watch was again one of questions without answers, and it was with relief that we began the third night’s march, and then the fourth.

It was that night that we reached our closest point to the Rhine. It was beyond our sight and hearing, but H estimated that we were within ten miles of the waters that separated the Empire from the enemy.

‘Make another few miles tonight,’ he whispered to the two runners. ‘Lie up, then cross tomorrow. Good luck.’

Titus and I added our own farewells through pats on the men’s shoulders. After leaving what rations they had with us, they took their leave.

‘We’ve got a long spell ahead,’ H murmured once the quiet rustle of the men’s movements had died away. ‘We’ll lie up here tonight. It’s a good spot.’

We formed our hide in silence. Titus took the first watch, and I was still in the laze of near-sleep when I heard him speak up. I kept my lids tightly shut, willing my mind to disengage, but it caught like a hook on the big man’s conversation with the centurion.

‘You look surprised to see me,’ he said, his whisper like a forge’s bellows.

‘Not really,’ H replied. ‘But I am glad to wake up alive, at least, so thank you for that.’

For days we had stayed silent, but I could tell by their surprised words that both men needed the closure of this conversation. I feigned sleep, not wanting to become an intruder.

‘Why would I kill you?’ Titus asked, bemused. ‘You saved my life. Dragged it out a little longer, anyway.’

‘What happened with Statius,’ H explained. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of man who likes witnesses, Titus.’

‘It wasn’t my crime. You were as much a part of hiding it as I was.’

H had nothing to say to that.

‘How did you know I wouldn’t run?’ the big man pressed.

‘You didn’t run a black market to go home poor, and you’re not weighed down with coins.’

‘You bet I want those coins more than my life?’ Titus asked, amused.

‘No,’ H conceded. ‘But you’d never leave without Stumps and Micon, would you?’

There was silence then. With certainty, I knew that Titus would be picturing the moment he had chosen to walk away with a legion’s pay chests rather than to stand and die alongside his comrades. The situation had seemed hopeless, and yet I was sure the shame of that moment gnawed away at his core. Titus was more complicated than he seemed.

‘I wouldn’t leave them,’ he admitted, and there was steel in that promise. Titus had been given his chance for redemption, something I had always been denied. He would not spurn it.

‘You’re a good man, H,’ Titus added after a long moment. ‘I can see that this shit with Statius, the raid and Malchus eats at you. That’s the problem with being a good bloke. But you are one, and I just wanted to tell you that.’

‘Before we die?’ the centurion asked darkly.

‘Of course,’ Titus answered, unashamed.

When darkness fell we left our shelter and the men’s words behind. We went forth, and sought out the enemy’s army.

For ten days we lived like animals in the undergrowth that touched the encampment of the blocking force. The German army was where it had been the night of our failed raid, straddled across the paved road that led to the crossing on the Rhine twelve miles distant – far enough to avoid tempting the Rhine garrisons to battle, close enough to make escape for us impossible.

We hoped to make a fool of Arminius’s claim. To that end we skulked in depressions in the earth during daylight, watching the enemy from tree-cloaked ridges and hillsides. At night we emerged alongside fox and wolf, creeping so close to the enemy positions that we could smell the ale on the cold air. We heard the bored voice of their sentries. We heard their laughter, and farts. We were close enough to kill them, but we watched, we noted, and we learned.

The force Arminius had left behind was a considerable one, a few thousand men, but it had grown lazy. Stagnant. There were no challenged passwords, simply spoken greetings that even we could understand. The patrols were infrequent, predictably timed and lacklustre. The German tribes had shown themselves to be brutal and fierce in combat, but given the tedium of the grind of campaign, they now showed their amateur nature.

‘Germany breeds warriors,’ I had once been told by a veteran of the early campaigns. ‘Rome trains soldiers.’

I saw the truth of that distinction now. Without the strict discipline that was the backbone of the legions, the German army appeared as nothing more threatening and hostile than any gathering of peoples.

Of course, that would change quickly if we were caught in the open.

The coming winter proved our ally in avoiding such detection. The nights grew bitter, and men clung to flaming campfires that warmed their hands but ruined their night vision. Tribesmen and camp followers stuck to their tents, leaving only when they had to. Frequent downpours washed away the enemy’s will to patrol.

But nothing comes without a price. We had no tents to retreat within. Instead, hides of branch and leaves were our refuge. We lived in sodden clothes, dank and miserable. My nose was a constant spout of snot, my greatest fear of detection coming from a wayward sneeze or cough. We were becoming sick men, our stubbled beards dusted with frost on the harshest of mornings. Needing to maintain our silence, there was no means to complain. No means to encourage.

It was not a happy existence, but we watched, we noted, and we learned.

Eventually, H decided that we had learned enough. I knew this because that night, following the fall of darkness, he began to lead us eastwards. We walked for miles before we stopped, resting on our knees within the slippery confines of a woodland ditch.