Джерейнт Джонс - Siege

‘Watch your feet,’ I whispered.

A voice spoke. ‘Torches.’

The light of the flames moved across our vision like fireflies. They were distant enough to pose no immediate threat, and numerous enough to know that, when they did, it would be fatal.

‘What was that?’ a nervous voice asked.

Fear began to stalk our ranks as certainly as the enemy.

‘Are they all around us?’

‘Keep quiet.’

‘What was that over there?’

‘Did you see something?’

‘No. Did you?’

The voices fell. Wind drove the rain into my eyes. I tried to blink the drops from my vision to clear the murky blur.

And then I saw the grey vision for what it was – ambient light bouncing from the armour of chain mail, the iron boss of shield and the steel of sharpened blades.

With a vicious roar that humbled the storm’s savagery, the enemy attacked.

One moment there had been empty darkness, the next there was an ink spill of enemies across the night’s black canvas.

They were on us before even half an order could leave a mouth. There was no time to think, and instinct carried the tip of my javelin into a bearded blur, the shock of the blow ripping through my wrist as the German skull lost its battle with iron.

I pulled the weapon back, bringing the man’s face with it, and then I was driving it forwards again, feeling more than seeing, sensing the strike against wood, or flesh. Then either German body or hands wrenched the weapon free of my grip. The wooden shaft was only a moment clear before I was drawing my short sword and driving it into the waist of the enemy swordsman biting chunks from Micon’s shield, splinters from which were scratching against my face.

By my strike that tribesman went down, but another soon filled the void. I saw the light shine from Micon’s blade, and felt the hot blood against my hand as the German fell back towards me, the reek of his breath and his opened bowels now thick in my nostrils.

That was the final moment of the action that etched its way into my consciousness. Automatic movements took over my body, thousands of hours of drill and their refinement in battle now put on trial once again. One slip would be enough to be my last. One split second of struggling to pull a blade from ribs. One inch of a shield lowered as biceps burned and screamed as loud as the howling enemy.

I had danced this dance before. Cut, parry, thrust. Plunge the steel into flesh in the space in front of me, pull it free, and repeat. It was the work of a butcher. Bloody, panted labour.

‘Halt!’ Albus called over the madness, his voice cracking. ‘ Halt! ’ he shouted again.

I let my sword arm drop beside me.

The enemy had gone.

Like the men to my sides, I stood panting, muscles and lungs burning. There was no time to speak, only to draw ragged breaths into a body that yearned to live a few moments longer.

We waited for them. We waited for the enemy’s next push. We heard the shouted commands in the darkness, and waited for the black void before our stinging eyes to fill with snarls and spears.

Instead trumpets blared in the distance.

‘The double march.’ Livius spoke up from somewhere behind me, my first indication that he still lived.

‘But who’s calling it?’ Titus spoke, and my panted breath eased knowing that he was still with us.

The German shouts came again, closer now. Some were excited. Others angry.

‘Brando,’ Titus called along the line of shields. ‘What are they saying?’

For a moment, there was silence.

Then: ‘Brando’s dead,’ Stumps shouted against the rain.

The words were a gentle slap in my face, and nothing more. We were still in the killing ground. Fear and excitement were making my limbs tingle with nervous energy. The enemy would come again, and more men would die. Now was the time for survival. Like the crows, grief and guilt would come when the battle had broken.

Trumpets blared once more.

‘Century!’ Albus hollered against the winds, deciding that he would follow the trumpet’s order. ‘Form into column!’

‘Form into column,’ men answered automatically, and section commander and veteran went about pushing men into place, their actions hurried and nervous, knowing that we were weaker in this formation if the enemy chose to attack again.

‘Prepare to double!’ Albus called. ‘Double march!’

And so we began to run, my shield and gaze turned out to the left, certain that the German warriors would smell this weakness and close in for the kill.

But there was nothing.

‘The torches are coming closer!’ someone shouted, and I watched as the beads of light danced and weaved in the darkness.

‘They’re getting near,’ Stumps warned, and I could hear him choke back fear. ‘Does Albus think we can just run home?’

Perhaps the centurion did, for as the trumpet’s notes continued to wail ahead of us, we passed the first band of torchlit German warriors. Some of their bearded faces looked our way, hurling oaths and spit, but most of the tribesmen had their eyes fastened to the ground, uncaring of our retreat.

Because there was loot to be had.

The ground about us was scattered with the discarded possessions of the civilians, and on to this windfall the tribesmen fell. As I watched the thick carpet of torchlight in the distance, I realized now in which direction the enemy horde was moving.

‘They’re going to loot the fort!’ I shouted against the storm. ‘They’re going east!’

East – away from the river and its bridges. Away from Roman lands. The enemy blocking force had chosen loot over battle, and no man contested our hurried formation with anything more deadly than a cruel smile or a stream of curses.

The trumpet’s call was closer now, the sound of clashing blades and screams a memory carried away by the wind.

Instead, we heard the rumble of hoof beats.

‘Cavalry front!’ Albus called instantly. ‘Form square! Fucking move! Form square! Go! Go! Move!’

No man wasted a moment, and shield overlapped shield, men in the front ranks calling for javelins as they knelt in the mud, and we prepared to receive either an enemy’s charge, or our own deliverance.

‘Make or break,’ Stumps snorted.

The hoof beats came closer.

‘If I don’t make it back,’ Titus said into the darkness, ‘I buried my and Metella’s stash under the granary.’

Stumps snorted. ‘Now you fucking tell me.’

‘Brace yourselves,’ I urged my friends.

The horses were upon us.

Roman cavalry.

Dozens of them, their beasts’ nostrils snorting in the night. The smell of fear and panic made them skittish, and the cavalry officer’s steed shifted nervously beneath its rider as he shouted against the storm.

‘Keep going!’ he ordered. ‘Follow the road! We’ve cleared it, and the legion’s coming! Keep going and you’ll run right into them!’

‘How far?’ Albus called.

‘Eight miles, but they crossed an hour ago, coming at the double! I’ll send twenty of my blokes with you!’ the cavalryman shouted. ‘Just follow them and the road!’

The century was already forming into column before Albus could order it.

‘Double march!’ he bellowed.

And we ran to meet the legions.

We found them in less than an hour of scorched lungs and aching shoulders. Muscles pulled and burned, but no man complained – we were a final effort from sanctuary. A final push from home. The hobnails of our sandals had sounded like music as we had hit the paved road that ran west, its stony course leading us into the wide front ranks of the imposing First Legion, the faces of its soldiers etched with disappointment when they saw that it was Romans who arrived with the dawn, and not an enemy they had burst lungs to meet in battle.