Siege

by Geraint Jones

  Malchus frowned, and urged me to speak.

  ‘I’m worried they’d be more of a liability than an asset, sir,’ I lied, except in the case of Micon, who would doubtless be a disaster. ‘If I can be honest, sir, I don’t know how they made it this far.’

  ‘I expect I know.’ The tall centurion smiled down at me, respectful of my tact and of my service. ‘I’ll go with your instinct on this one, sir?’ he asked of his prefect.

  ‘Sounds right,’ Caedicius agreed. ‘Take him, Malchus. How many others will you need?’

  ‘A century.’

  Caedicius shook his head. ‘That leaves us with no reserve. Take a half instead, handpicked or volunteers.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’ll go tonight?’

  Malchus nodded. ‘With your permission, sir.’

  Caedicius gave it. ‘Make the preparations. Fully brief me at the end of the next watch.’

  Malchus saluted his superior officer; then he placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Let’s find some food,’ he said, and I followed his wide shoulders through the doorway.

  Malchus acquired bread and cheese and ordered me to sit and eat beside a table in the headquarters building. Then I was interrogated about the enemy’s camp, Malchus writing notes and drawing sketches from my memory.

  ‘Don’t want to lose all this if your head comes loose,’ he joked darkly.

  I could tell that the centurion was fond of me. He had only slightly exaggerated when he said that there were more scars on my arms than hairs. One of a warrior’s greatest tools for survival is identifying fellow killers, and Malchus was certain he had found one in me. Doubtless he thought I had volunteered to join the raid so that I could accompany him in spilling blood.

  He was wrong. It was the conservation of life that had led me to open my mouth. To see that Stumps and Micon remained within the wall. Brando and Folcher too, for these Batavians were now my responsibility by rank. More than that, they were my comrades.

  I finished my last mouthful in silence as Malchus absorbed the work of his hand. His gaze was so full of intent and heat that I worried the paper would burst into flame. Finally he rolled up the diagrams and handed them to a clerk. I expected then that I would be excused, and returned to my century.

  I was wrong.

  ‘Three legions.’ Malchus finally spoke. There was some anger in the words, but mostly it was disbelief, and grief.

  I remained silent. Malchus did not. ‘I need you to understand something, in case you haven’t already. What you were involved in, Felix, is going to change the Empire. We can’t lose three legions. We simply can’t. All the plans for Germany, it’s all going to change. This frontier isn’t about expansion any more, you understand? It’s about survival.’

  I held my tongue. I understood every word, but not why they were being directed towards a legionary by a cohort commander.

  Malchus enlightened me. ‘Have you ever been involved in a siege, Felix?’

  I had, and I had no wish to recall those memories: the stench of rotting flesh; the empty pain of hunger; the misery of knowing that death waited patiently beyond a wall; the terror as voices screamed that the final defence had been breached, and now enemies swarmed in for the kill.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘In a siege, people need hope. Now, everybody in here knows what happened to Varus’s army, but they don’t know what happened to Varus’s army. Do you understand me, Felix? Do you see the difference?’

  I nodded. Malchus went on.

  ‘Three legions. Fifteen thousand men. It’s just too big a number for them to grasp. They know it’s bad, but they can’t get their heads around how much of a fucking disaster this is. Understood?’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘I think you do,’ Malchus said. ‘And so you know why it is that I can’t have stories getting out about what happened. Stories these people can understand. Because when they do understand, Felix, there will be no hope in this fort. There’s just going to be panic, and when that happens, we die.’

  ‘I won’t speak of it, sir,’ I answered. ‘Nor the others.’

  ‘Good. We have to stand strong, and united.’

  I could see that the centurion wanted to say more. He almost bit it back, but something in my wretched manner caused him to confess, and issue a warning. ‘If we survive here, Felix, then be careful, all right?’

  He got to his feet then. Our conversation was over. ‘We’ll form up at the west gate at dusk. Go and sleep.’

  I saluted and left the room. Early autumn sunlight hit my face as I stepped through the doorway. It was beautiful, but as I closed my eyes to embrace it, I caught the sound of screams – the wounded outside the walls still toiled in their agony. I tried to let the thought of them slip from my mind, thinking instead of what Malchus had told me.

  Be careful.

  He had no idea how close to the truth he was. If I survived Arminius’s siege, my past was only a chance encounter away. Whilst I remained in the Empire, I lived on the precipice. For the first time in days I thought of Britain beyond the sea. Instantly I felt the familiar pull to break free of Rome’s chains, and to chase the ghost of a new life beneath the white cliffs of that island. To chase the ghost of the one blissful memory in my past.

  I snapped from my daydream. The screams would not cease. Before I could ever be rid of them, I would have to survive.

  13

  The hillside was a carpet of plant life, deep green and vibrant. I sat high up in its reaches, the rocky clearing a refuge since my childhood. Below my sanctuary stretched the sea, its purest shades of blue teased by the wind.

  ‘I don’t want to leave here,’ I told my friend.

  He sat beside me on the stone on which we’d once carved our names. His face was handsome and vital in profile. ‘You don’t have to.’

  I snorted a laugh. We both knew it was a lie, and so instead of speaking I strained my eyes to stare hard at the horizon, willing them to see what was beyond the waters. Willing myself to see the majesty of Rome.

  ‘You’ll go there one day,’ my companion told me. My most loyal friend, he had always known what was in my mind.

  ‘I don’t know if I want to,’ I answered, surprising us both.

  ‘Why?’

  I thought then about love, and expectation. I thought about dreams, and hope, and how they never survived the reality of our lives. Did I want to shatter an illusion?

  ‘What are we doing up here, Marcus?’ I said instead. ‘This is home. We shouldn’t be here.’

  A soft laugh, and then my friend turned to face me, revealing the side of his face that had been hidden.

  I jumped back as terror shot through me – his jaw had been unhinged from a sword’s bite. It flapped useless and red beneath his face.

  ‘Don’t you miss it?’ he asked me, his voice now rasping. With each breath, his thick tongue lifted below his opened mouth.

  I recoiled, reaching desperately for my weapon.

  I found nothing.

  ‘Don’t you miss it?’ he asked again.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I gasped.

  He stood in answer. A hand held against his split stomach was all that kept him together.

  ‘I miss it.’ His voice grated, eyes wandering from me to the horizon. ‘I miss the sea. I miss the hills. I miss the wind.’

  ‘Marcus …’

  His stare shot back to me, eyes full of furious vengeance. ‘I miss my sisters. I miss my parents. I miss my friends …’

  ‘Marcus …’

  ‘Do you miss your friends, Corvus? Do you miss your friends?’

  He stood over me now. Blood from his wounds dripped on to my face.

  It was cold.

  ‘Do you miss me, Corvus?’

  ‘Marcus …’ I stammered, beginning to cry. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘DO YOU MISS ME?’ he roared.

  And then the droplets became a downpour, the blood cascading over my face, washing into my eyes, cho
king me as it clogged my throat.

  I was dying. Drowning.

  I tried to scream.

  I tried to cry out.

  Marcus …

  But there was only blood.

  14

  It was Brando who had thrown the water over me. I woke gasping, seeing the Batavian look back at me with a wide-eyed Folcher on his shoulder.

  ‘I told you to just let him get on with it,’ a voice grunted. It was Stumps, lying flat on his own bunk. ‘Mattress is fucked now.’

  Brando ignored him, and looked apologetically from me to the empty bucket. ‘It used to work with my father.’

  I swung my feet from my bed and on to the concrete floor of our barrack block. Micon’s snores droned from the bed above me. ‘How long was I asleep?’

  ‘Six hours,’ Brando told me. ‘It’s almost dusk. The raiding party’s beginning to form up,’ he added, and I noticed then that both Batavians were wearing their armour.

  ‘You’re not coming,’ I told them flatly.

  Brando ignored me. Instead he passed me a bowl of hot soup and a wedge of bread.

  ‘You’re not coming,’ I insisted.

  ‘With respect, Felix, we lost hundreds of our brothers in the forest. We’ll do what we like.’

  I didn’t try to argue. Not yet. Instead I quickly finished the food, grateful that I had something to concentrate on instead of the blood that pounded inside my skull, and the lingering touch of the nightmare.

  ‘I heard you volunteered to go on this raid.’ Stumps spoke up from his bed. I said nothing. ‘You’re a fucking idiot, Felix. Stop looking for ways to get yourself killed.’

  I had no desire to argue with my comrade, but I felt the need to calm him. It could be the last time that I saw him, and if this was to be the parting of our ways, I wanted it to be on good terms.

  ‘I’m just going as a guide.’

  ‘You’re guiding yourself into a hole in the dirt.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a few hours.’

  Stumps snorted at that, and rolled on to his side, his face hidden from me.

  ‘I’ll see you in a few hours,’ I repeated; then I walked into the dusk, collecting my short sword as I went.

  Folcher spoke up. ‘Felix. Your armour.’ Having been fed and given some measure of rest, the Batavian had finally found his tongue; it was thicker in its handling of Latin than Brando’s.

  I shook my head. ‘Not for this. Light and silent.’ I hoped my words would encourage the men to remain behind me, to discard their own armour, but they stayed on my heels as I made my way towards the western gate.

  The civilians I passed on our way were cowed and fearful. Their manner surprised me, given our victorious slaughter of the dawn.

  ‘Did something happen?’ I asked Brando.

  ‘Nothing unexpected,’ he answered cryptically. Folcher was only slightly more helpful.

  ‘Arminius was killing.’

  I asked them to be more specific. The actions of the day could affect the course of the raid.

  ‘Two dozen horsemen came out of his camp,’ Brando explained. ‘They stopped just out of the archers’ range. They had heads on their spear-points.’

  News of the grotesque display was not surprising. Arminius would want to dampen the Roman spirits that had been raised by the morning’s repulse of his attack. I hoped that the owners of the severed heads had not suffered too greatly before the parade, but knowing the enemy, the deaths of the victims would have been long and agonizing.

  Sword in my own hand, with bloodshed imminent, I thought then about how quickly it could all end. How years of a soldier’s life, and all the memories and moments he had treasured, could cease far from his home surrounded by strangers, and in a strange land. How mothers would never know that their boys cried for their comfort as life slipped away into dirt or sand. The families of the fallen would never know the detail of their loved ones’ end, and that, at least, was a mercy.

  In the fading light I saw the body of the raiding party forming up. Drawing closer I took in their faces. All were volunteers, and it showed: narrow eyes and set jaws. The mark of men set on killing.

  I sought out the crest of Centurion Malchus. He found me first. He was inconspicuous in his dress – a simple tunic. His weapons were sheathed in the scabbards on his crossed belts, his skin darkened with dirt. All about us, the men of the raiding party followed his example.

  Brando spoke up quickly. ‘Sir, I beg that we may volunteer for the raid? We speak German, sir. We can help.’

  Remembering our earlier conversation about my comrades’ capabilities, Malchus turned his grey eyes to me. Set back in his darkened face, they made for a formidable sight. I met his look, and gave the slightest shake of my head.

  ‘Just you,’ Malchus ordered Brando, sending Folcher’s shoulders slouching with disappointment. ‘You’ll stay next to me at all times, you understand? Send your armour back with your friend.’

  Brando obeyed quickly, stripping out of his mail with the help of his comrade. Then the two Batavians embraced, exchanging words in their native language. Stooped with frustration and worry for his friend, Folcher slumped away in the direction of the barracks.

  ‘Did you hear about the parade this afternoon?’ Malchus asked me.

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘He’s trying to rattle us. Keep a cool head,’ he warned, apparently still convinced that I yearned for battle. Given the evidence of my life, perhaps he was right. Perhaps he saw something that I did not, or at least that I refused to acknowledge.

  ‘You.’ Malchus addressed Brando. ‘What’s German for goat-fucker?’

  Brando told him, and the centurion laughed. On the eve of danger, he seemed serene in his happiness. ‘Stay here. I’ll find you when it’s time.’

  Silence held between myself and Brando. Elsewhere there was the hushed sound of talk between comrades. The nervous laugh; the whispered promise; the most mundane conversation, offered as distraction from the inevitable.

  ‘Soup, sir?’ a voice asked from the darkness. He was an older man with crumpled skin. His Latin was clear, but accented. A slave.

  ‘Thank you,’ I answered, taking the broth and observing the man.

  As a Roman citizen I had spent my life surrounded by slaves. They had cooked my meals, cleaned my home and died for my family’s entertainment in the arena. But never had I seen them as I did now, following my own captivity, however brief it might have been.

  ‘Felix. I’d like some.’ Brando took the cup that I’d held on to as I daydreamed.

  Brando took a deep mouthful and then passed the cup back to the slave, who slipped away into the darkness. I thought about him as we awaited the order to creep away ourselves: where had he come from? Who had he been? What were his dreams, before slavery had taken him? How did he feel serving men who enjoyed rights and freedoms that were denied him? How did he do it with a smile on his face? And why had he not escaped, or died trying?

  ‘Felix. It’s time,’ Brando told me, seeing Malchus’s towering silhouette approaching. I watched it, noting how the centurion paused to talk to each of his volunteers: cementing their confidence; pouring fuel on to men’s anger, or dousing it, whichever was required by their temperament. I had seen many leaders in war, and Malchus was proving himself to be amongst the more natural. Of course, the real test would come beyond the wall.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he ordered, and I followed to where ropes were being dropped into the darkness and men crowded and hushed on the fighting step, their eyes bright in blackened faces.

  As guide, I took hold of the closest rope, and made to be the first down the wall. Malchus stepped forward and put his hand on mine; he would lead the way. Seconds later, he had been lost to the night.

  I felt Brando’s presence on my shoulder.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  And then I took the rope in my hand, and crept down into the darkness.

  15

 
The muscles of my shoulders ached as I slowly lowered myself down the face of the wall, feet padding gently against the facade to control my descent.

  Malchus was already on the ground, his tall frame coiled like a serpent preparing to strike. I joined him as the black shapes of the raiding party began to descend the wall either side of us. We were using ropes for the security of the fort, so the gates could remain shut, but it would make the extraction of the wounded difficult, if not impossible, and so Malchus now gave me the same pragmatic advice as he had given his men.

  ‘If you’re hurt badly, just accept it and finish yourself off. We need every able-bodied man we can to defend the fort, and it’s not fair to get someone killed in a rescue attempt, just because a soldier can’t find the guts to do the right thing. Agreed?’

  I could think of little to say, and so I simply nodded in the darkness.

  ‘We’ve seen what they do to our wounded, sir,’ Brando replied for the both of us.

  ‘Good man. Is that everybody down?’ Malchus whispered. ‘Form up in single file behind me. Not a sound from here. Felix, take us to the bastards.’

  There was little point in hesitating, and so I moved off at a crouch across the flat field, pausing regularly to listen for the tell-tale clink of weapons and armour, or the suppressed word or cough from a loose mouth. Arminius’s forward picket line was set far back from the fort, and was not manned in strength; who expected the men within the fort’s walls to leave its promise of safety and sally out against an army that numbered in the thousands? Still, there was always the chance of encountering scouts, or men desperate to retrieve fallen or wounded friends. With my own eyes, I had even seen men risk death in the darkness to loot the bodies of their dead comrades. I did not doubt that there were such opportunists within Arminius’s ranks. Nor did I doubt that there would be Roman soldier, civilian and Syrian archer leaving the fort’s walls to plunder the bodies that filled the eastern wall’s ditch.

  Pausing again, I slowly scanned from left to right, certain that I could now make out the black line of earth that marked the lip of one of the zigzag trenches. During my talk with Malchus he had asked whether I thought it viable to use the earthworks as a means to approach the enemy camp, but darkness gave us the cover and freedom that we needed. Confined in a trench, sound would be dampened. Sight would be limited. I had fought in siege works before, and there was no battle more horrid than that conducted beneath the soil.