Джерейнт Джонс - Legion

I realized then that Octavius was the furthest forward of them all. As an optio, his place was at the rear of the century, chaperoning the troops into formation, but his position was no mystery to me; it only made me more sad – Octavius must have stepped up when Varo had gone ahead with a section of men to scout the dangerous terrain ahead, and had not returned.

I looked over my shoulder. Iulius, arm yet to be bandaged, leaned back against a slab of rock. He had brought me to this place of stone, safe enough now that other centuries had pushed ahead so that we might give honour to the dead.

It took me two attempts to break the man from his trance. No doubt he was replaying the catastrophic moments. The screams. The chaos.

‘Standard-bearer?’

‘Tell me again what happened?’ I asked, looking back to the face of my fallen friend. I would not let go of his hand. I couldn’t.

‘We got sent on a patrol from the valley to investigate some smoke,’ Iulius began. ‘Us and the First Century in two columns—’

He stopped because I waved my free hand at him. ‘I don’t care about that. What happened to Octavius and Varo?’

The wounded man nodded. ‘Varo didn’t like the look of this route, so he went ahead with a section to try and find us a better way. We were a bit further back down the trail, then. There wasn’t much sign of them going back, so Octavius was just getting us going when the arrows started coming in.’

I looked at the arrow in his throat. ‘He died first?’

Iulius shook his head, and almost smiled. He had pride in the man who had once been his section commander. ‘Look at his shield.’

I did. Four arrows were embedded in the livery of our legion.

‘He stormed forwards to get us moving again. He knew we had to charge them to break the ambush.’

‘And did you?’

‘We did,’ Iulius confirmed. ‘Lost men doing it, and I think Octavius was one of the first, but if he hadn’t started that charge, there’d be more of us on the ground here. I tell you that as a fact.’

I looked at his dead face. ‘Leaders don’t talk,’ I said quietly. ‘They lead.’

‘What was that?’

I made no reply. Instead, with a silent plea of forgiveness, I let go of my friend’s hand, and got to my feet. ‘We need to find Varo and the others.’

Iulius grimaced, and looked at the sun – it was low in the sky. ‘It’s going to be getting dark soon,’ he informed me gently. ‘And…’

‘Spit it out.’

‘Shouldn’t we bury the dead? There’s a shallow over there we could dig out.’

Frustration gripped me. I looked at the mountains and ridges that ranged all about us. Varo was out there, but Octavius was at my feet. How could I leave him unburied for wolf, and vermin?

‘I need to find Varo and the others.’ I was speaking almost to myself.

‘Don’t hit me for saying this, but no one’s following you into these hills at night, Corvus. If you want to do right by your friends, see to Octavius. It’s what Varo would want, isn’t it?’

It was, and I knew with angry certainty that I would not survive hunting blindly in the mountains at night.

‘Fuck this place,’ I snarled, hurling a stone. ‘ Fuck it .’

And then I buried my friend.

We started digging out the shallow depression that Iulius had pointed out. Before we were even a half-foot down, our tools struck sparks against solid rock.

‘This is no country worth fighting for,’ an Italian soldier growled.

Darkness was closing fast, and with it our flanking troops would be withdrawn to the main body of the legion along the snaking form of the valley’s river. We would have to bury our friends beneath stones.

‘I’m sorry,’ I told Octavius as I placed the final one over his face, his features mercifully hidden in the twilight. I don’t know how long I knelt there, until a friendly hand shook my shoulder.

Iulius. ‘We should go.’

He was right. Darkness had come. This land belonged to the enemy now, if it hadn’t always.

We stumbled our way back to the camp, and found wine.

Somewhere in the black, a man screamed.

They bring me before them in chains. I have climbed the mountain in such bondage. My wrists are red welts. My bare feet are cut to ribbons from the sharp stone.

I am on my knees. There are four of them before me.

I do not ask why I am here.

I know.

I knew it from the first moment that I looked into their dead eyes: Priscus. Octavius. Varo – yes, he is here. The screams in the night… how can I hope for the impossible?

And…

‘Beatha?’

Her stare cuts through me, a blade of ice. Where once there had been love and radiance, now there is only cold death.

‘Beatha…’

I look at my friends on the mountaintop. They have gone from the world that they knew. Failed by the one that they loved. The one that they gave themselves to. The one who failed them.

‘I’m sorry.’

My trial is silent. Their judgement is final.

My three comrades turn their backs, and walk away.

I have lost them to the mountains.

Only Beatha remains. With painful steel wrapped upon my limbs and grief wrapped about my heart, I stagger to my feet. My lips are silent, but my eyes beg. With bloody hands, I try to hold her.

She falls to ash in my hands.

When the mountain crumbles below me, I make not a sound.

I woke in silence. Felt as though I had run a marathon. The dream had drained me of every drop of strength, every ounce of meaning.

‘Varo is dead…’ I said to myself with quiet finality.

How can he not be?

My eyes adjusted to the darkness. My lonely campaign tent,weak moonlight shading the canvas.

I look for wine, but the skin is as empty as my hope. I wiped my eyes. They were dry. My tears have gone. I am numb. A carcass with a heartbeat.

I could change that.

I pushed myself up on to my knees. Pick up my sword from where it lies beside me. My actionssmooth and unhurried. No ceremony, just the deliberate motions of one who wishes to see a job done properly.

The edge of the blade catches the moonlight that leaks inside the canvas. I took the pommel in my hands, and turn the blade towards my naked chest. I feel it prick the flesh. The first drop of blood.

I know what I can do. I know what I must do. I am here before them on my knees, and now I prepare to pass judgement on myself – what other sentence can I receive but death? I have only to fall. Hit the hard ground, then bleed into it. Nourish the dead soil. The same soil that has swallowed my comrades.

I breathe deeply.

I hesitate.

Why?

I am afraid. I am afraid, yes.

Of death? No.

I am afraid of what they will say to me when I see them. I am afraid that I will only reveal myself to be a coward. I don’t deserve life, I am certain of this, but do I deserve the peace of death? Do I deserve their presence in the afterlife? Would they even look at me? Talk to me? I failed them. How can I face them as… this?

Beatha. How can I go to her when I have a blade in my hand, and strength in my body? What would she tell me to do? What would she counsel, guided by her great capacity for love, which was not reserved for me, but given freely to all people? She would not want me to abandon Marcus, despite what he is becoming in this war. With certainty, I realize that it is for precisely this reason that she would want me to remain – who else can turn Marcus back from darkness but his oldest friend? His brother? Who else will even try?

And then there are the innocent. The women. The children. The elderly. I am one man, not a god, and I can never change the face of war, but perhaps I can at least shield some from its deadly gaze? While I am alive, I can counsel restraint. Defend with my words those that I cannot guard with my shield. Beatha would love me for it. The others would understand. I am not turning on my legion. My empire. I am simply trying to be the best instrument of it that I can be.