Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

We let ourselves be pulled back.

I looked at Brando. He closed his eyes. A moment later, a dagger was driven into the base of Ekkebert’s skull.

That night, as we lay huddled and tied together, I whispered to Brando beside me: ‘I’m trying tomorrow.’

The big Batavian grunted, ‘I’m with you. I can’t do that again. I…’ His words slipped away with the same tired struggle that Ekkebert’s life had ended.

Then: ‘Why us, Felix?’ he asked me.

I gave no reply, for I had none. Instead I willed myself to sleep, and to hope.

The next morning we were returned to the trench. Again the German army stirred but did not appear as if it would strike.

‘Do you think they know yet? On the Rhine, and in Rome?’ Brando asked, swinging his pick into the dirt with simmering anger.

‘I think so,’ I answered. I’d considered the question, and come to the conclusion that the mobilization of the tribes was too great an undertaking for word of it to not have filtered back to Rome through spies, traders and sympathetic allies; not all of the German people would stand behind Arminius. The Batavians alongside me were proof of that.

‘So now what?’ he asked.

I had no idea. To my knowledge, a large portion of Rome’s military might was still in Pannonia and Dalmatia, putting out the final embers of rebellion that had raged for three years, drenching the provinces in blood. Even with immediate notice, it would take weeks to reach a position where it could block Arminius should he cross the Rhine and advance into Gaul.

‘There’re two more legions on the Rhine.’ Brando spoke up, mirroring my thoughts. ‘But they’re spread out in the forts, and to the south.’

‘They don’t need to be together to hold him at the river,’ I suggested. ‘They just need to cut loose the pontoon bridges.’

‘And then what happens to us?’

I said nothing.

After a morning of labour, we were granted a short rest in the dirt of the trench. Eyeing the fort’s walls ahead, I could see that we were almost within range of the archers – the reeking bodies of German warriors, shafts protruding from their decaying flesh, were proof of that.

The sight of the dead put our guards on edge, and they abandoned the high ground to join us in the relative safety of the zigzagging trench. As a waterskin was passed from one pair of cracked lips to another, I knew that the time to attempt an escape would be soon, or never.

Our guards grunted orders. Our toil resumed. With every swing and bite of the spade, our shallow trench crept closer to the fort. The first shaft of an arrow hissed over shortly after. Men took to working on their knees. Our guards took to crouching, and I saw the opportunity that I had been looking for.

It was dusk before I took it – I needed the long shadows. Until then, I dug like a dutiful slave. When I judged that the moment had come, I looked back over my shoulder.

‘Brando,’ I warned, my look giving him all the instruction he needed. Then I dropped to my knees and hissed in pain.

The closest guard came towards me a second later. Another tall tribesman, he was stooped awkwardly to avoid arrows. There was a blade in his hand, and his blue eyes were dangerous.

He didn’t see the stone I had left half-buried in the mud. Crouched as he was, the trip was enough for him to lose balance, and as his body tipped forwards, the German’s eyes looked to break his fall, and not for an attack – it gave me inches.

It gave me enough.

I looped the spade over in a wide arc. I held it side on, and the angled steel of the head dug into the back of the man’s skull with a grotesque crack. The shape of the zigzagging trench hid my actions, and now bought me seconds before the body was discovered – I hoped it would be enough.

‘Run!’ I hissed into Micon’s face, half throwing him with Brando on to the lip of the trench. Stumps needed no such help, and took off like a hare. Brando and Folcher were soon close on his heels. Beside me, Vinicius of the Nineteenth climbed out from the dirt.

‘You stupid bastard!’ he hissed at me as we took off, and I begged my legs to sprint.

I never felt so slow in my life. Nor, having left the confines of the trench for the open field strewn with corpses, did I ever feel so exposed. My muscles screamed at me that they were empty, and needed to stop. My mind cried that I was a fool. Behind me, German voices snarled. I did not turn to look. I simply ran.

‘We’re Roman! We’re Roman!’ I tried to shout as arrows began to hiss through the air.

The others quickly took up my call. Beside me, Vinicius’s cries were cut short as an arrow buried itself in his face. He was dead before he hit the floor, and I assumed that I would follow a moment later.

I was wrong – the fire ceased, and we covered the remaining ground panting and ragged.

‘Run then, you fuckers!’ came the encouragement from the walls.

We ran. We ran, we stumbled, and we closed on the gate that we thought would be our salvation.

‘Open the gates!’ Stumps cried, the first to reach them, his arms banging feebly against the thick wood.

The others took up the calls. ‘Open the gates! Open the gates!’

I raised my eyes to the gatehouse above me, where I saw a dozen arrows pointed at my face.

Their message was clear.

The gates would stay shut.

I pressed my calloused hands against the wood of the gate. It was solid. Immobile. Blood pounded in my ears. Breaths rasped against my throat.

‘Open up, you arseholes!’ Stumps roared, defiant in the face of the archers.

I turned to look behind us, expecting that a wave of Germans would have followed in our pursuit, but there was nothing. Aside from the thick smudge of movement in the German camp, all was quiet and serene. Having gone from death to such tranquillity in an instant, I wondered for a moment if this was the afterlife.

‘Who are you?’ a voice called out from above, reminding me of where I was.

I stepped back from the gate so that I could see the man who addressed us. He was a centurion, marked out by the transverse crest of his helmet. His face was open and smiling. ‘Speak up, boys. These archers have got a competition going on for most kills, and you lot are looking tempting.’

‘We escaped, sir,’ I managed.

‘Yeah, I saw that.’ The centurion grinned, before he remembered that one of us had died in the attempt. ‘Sorry about your friend, but the fort comes first. No settling debts if you come in, all right?’

‘If?’ Brando blurted out, unable to contain himself.

‘Fort comes first,’ the centurion repeated. ‘Now who are you?’

One by one, we gave our names and unit, and then the centurion quizzed us until he was happy that we had indeed served beneath the eagles as we claimed. Stumps was irritated, but the mild interrogation did not surprise me. What did was that the centurion made no attempt to quiz us on how we had come to be slaves of a German horde. News of the lost legions had arrived before us.

‘Look, boys.’ The man spoke up. ‘Just sit down there and rest. Here.’ He smiled, dropping down a wineskin. ‘Relax. These gates aren’t opening even for a parade of half-priced whores, so I’ve sent for ropes. We’ll lift you in.’

With nothing to do but wait, I took the officer’s advice and sat back against the timbers. The wineskin passed from hand to hand, eventually arriving in mine. The liquid was beautiful.

‘Cheers,’ Brando offered, passing it to me for a second time. ‘You know, I thought I’d be relieved when we made it here,’ he confided, ‘but looking at that…’ His arm swept out to encompass Arminius’s sprawling army. The vast body of men was thick on the ground surrounding us, cloaking any rise in the terrain – it was a formidable sight.