Siege

by Geraint Jones

  I looked up to the sky. A high blanket of cloud continued to contain the moon. So much the better for us. The sixty men were silent except for the escape of breath, and the gentle splash of a piss that could no longer be held. Perhaps two hours passed as we inched our way across the field, considering every yard.

  The enemy were not so concerned with concealment. As we drew closer, the red smudges of their campfires could be made out by the detail of the blazing branches. The silhouettes of tall men stood about the flames, some engaged in conversation, none in song. The morning’s slaughter had shaken them, and tonight would be a time for remembering those who had died spitted by arrows or crushed by rocks.

  I froze as I felt Malchus’s hand on my shoulder. He then cupped it to my ear and whispered, ‘Two sentries. Fifty yards. Look ahead, and then come slightly to your left.’

  I strained to hear the words, and followed the instructions. Sure enough, Malchus’s predatory eyes had picked out the outermost screen of Arminius’s sentries.

  I felt a prodding in my ribs. I looked down, and saw that it was the centurion’s dagger. I met his look, and understood his meaning; we would go forward alone, and take out the enemy’s eyes.

  With a gesture Malchus ordered the others to remain in place. Then, as seamlessly as an otter slips into the river, Malchus was on his belly and silently crawling towards the Germans.

  These were tribesmen, not trained soldiers. They had been rounded up by their chieftains and told that it was war. They were amateurs in a deadly game, and Malchus was a professional who lived for nothing else but to play it. I was not so enthusiastic in giving death, but I could not deny that I was the centurion’s equal in practice.

  We crawled out and around so that we came from behind the German guards. This close, I could smell the stink of their furs, and the stale ale on their breath. Their voices were hushed, and high. Nervous young men who would never live to learn from their mistake.

  I felt the silhouette of Malchus rise beside me. I matched the movement, slowly bringing my hand outwards so that it could be clapped over the sentry’s mouth. In my left hand I held the dagger. It was angled high, ready to plunge into the base of the sentry’s neck. My breath was held in my throat. The Germans talked on. One of them laughed. And then they died.

  Malchus made the first move, but I did not watch his action, needing only to feel the movement. Once I did, I swept my hand out to quickly trap shut the German’s mouth, and within the same breath I drove my blade into his skull, fighting against the bones of the spine as I struggled to dig it in deeper, and to kill the man before he could recover enough to bite at my hand and scream.

  There was a brief flash of rigidity, and then his body was limp. Blood gushed out from his mouth as I took my hand away and slowly returned the body to the floor.

  Malchus wasted no time, creeping at speed to summon the raiding party forward. They rejoined me at the bodies.

  ‘Faster now, Felix,’ Malchus whispered, his teeth flashing brightly. With blood on his hands, the centurion seemed eager to unleash more death on to the enemy.

  I did as he ordered, moving quickly at the crouch, anxious to pick the trail that gave us the most cover from the dancing light of the enemy fires.

  ‘We need to get some of those flames,’ Malchus ordered one of his men, and dispatched six of them to take care of it. ‘When it all gets noisy, torch whatever you can.’

  I had expected to find more sentries in our path, but soon we were on the edge of the German camp, its tents, shelters and fires clear in the torchlight. Tribesmen were present beside the flames, but it appeared as though most of Arminius’s army was sleeping.

  Malchus almost seemed disappointed at the ease with which we pushed inwards into the camp, the smell of burning wood, slaughtered goats and open latrines wafting into our nostrils.

  ‘There’s some,’ I whispered, pointing to a large stack of timber beside a goat pen. Moving closer, I could smell the sawdust and see the fresh saw marks. Arminius was either settling in for a siege, or preparing to fire the fort.

  ‘Grab it,’ Malchus ordered his men.

  The raiding party’s soldiers came forward in pairs. Their instructions were to carry what they could, then make their own way back down the route that we had followed into the camp. If that path was blocked, then they were to fight their own way back to the best of their ability. Failing that, they were to single out the enemy leaders marked by the wealth of gold that the Germans wore so fondly, and attack them. The soldiers were not expected to survive such attempts, but dead German leadership would cause internal disputes within their tribe, and any conflict that drew strength away from Arminius’s campaign was welcome.

  ‘Sir.’ A voice spoke up beside me. It was Brando; the Batavian crouched beside us, his eyes on Malchus.

  The centurion’s look gave him consent to speak.

  ‘Sir, I beg permission to try and rescue prisoners. They won’t be far from here, sir. I know I can get some of them.’

  Brando’s eyes were pleading. The big man was set on this task, I could see. He was willing to die for it.

  Malchus recognized the same bravery, but shook his head. ‘This is about Rome, not us. Arminius had to think we came for this,’ he said, gesturing to the timber.

  Brando’s strong jaw flinched as he bit back his ambition to free the prisoners. ‘For Rome, sir,’ he muttered, and I was about to tell him to keep quiet, and concentrate on keeping watch, when all thoughts of stealth ceased to matter.

  A guttural challenge rang out in the night. It was followed by a clash of steel, and then a scream.

  Malchus flexed his shoulder and tested the weight of the blade in his hands. ‘They’re awake,’ he snarled.

  And then the killing began.

  16

  The German camp woke slowly to the bloodshed. Many of their men had drunk themselves stupid after their failed assault that morning, and they snored away in ignorant bliss of the presence of Romans amongst them. Those who had found resting places close to the fires would never wake again: Malchus ghosted from one to another, slitting throats and cutting spines. I followed in his wake, my sandals slipping in blood.

  ‘You two, stay close,’ Malchus ordered me and Brando. ‘The rest of you split up!’ he told the men that had yet to collect timber. ‘Grab what you can and make your way back to the fort. Try and kill some of the fuckers on the way!’

  The sound of blade on blade was growing now. So too were the screams. One must have come from a horrific wound – the agonized wail was never-ending.

  ‘You! Batavian!’ Malchus called to Brando. ‘Start shouting commands in German. Confuse the fuckers! Call them to rally here.’

  Brando obeyed, and within moments a pair of young spearmen rushed to his call. There was a split second to register the confusion in their eyes before Malchus drove the point of his sword into a stomach and I took the other with a driving stroke into a thin chest.

  ‘They’ve lit fires,’ I pointed out to Malchus, seeing tents erupt into flame a hundred yards away. The centurion had ordered a group of soldiers to fire what they could, and the blaze was quick to spread in the tightly packed German camp. Many tribesmen stumbled out of the tents in panic, unarmed and unprepared. This was not a time for mercy, but survival, and so I cut through them with quick sword strokes. My blade bit into the bones of their forearms as they tried in vain to protect themselves.

  ‘Leave the wounded,’ Malchus ordered, seeing Brando sawing through beard and throat, his revenge at hand. ‘The more wounded they have the better! Come on. Keep moving.’

  We moved. We moved between tents, through pens and over bodies. The tribesmen in our path were drunk or disorientated, and they died easily. So too did their women, but none by my own hand. I saw their bodies stretched out in the mud, golden hair stained red.

  ‘Plenty of women back in camp,’ Malchus had teased me, catching my look.

  ‘Enemy left!’ Brando called.

  I turned,
seeing the first pocket of real resistance: a half-dozen tribesmen with swords and spears, their beards and eyes wild in the light of the fires.

  Malchus snatched a German spear from a corpse and hurled it like an Olympian, the point burying itself in a chest.

  And then he charged.

  Instinct rather than duty told me to follow on his shoulder. When faced with greater odds, do what the enemy don’t expect. Outnumbering us as they did, a charge from the bloodied centurion was not what they’d foreseen. It was that split second of doubt which gave Malchus his opening, and then he was in amongst them.

  He was fast. Perhaps one of the fastest I had seen. His sword was just a blur to me as I concentrated on my own fight, parrying the thrust of a spearman to my side and using my momentum to swing an elbow into his face. I felt his cheekbone buckle beneath the blow. I tried to punch him as he fell, but caught only his shoulder, the sting from my knuckles shooting back through my arm. As the man hit the floor I stamped with all of my force on to his head, my eyes already on my next opponent, who swung wildly with his sword, and it was a simple move for me to feint back before lunging forwards and up beneath the swing, my blade cutting through the soft belly, the heat of his guts steaming as they burst out on to my hand.

  I let him fall then, as good as dead. Malchus and Brando had taken care of the others. I assumed we would move immediately, and prepared myself to run.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Malchus ordered, dropping to his knee alongside the largest of the Germans. The centurion must have dropped the man with a combination of blows: the thick German chest had been cleaved open and hissing air escaped from torn lungs. The warrior was not long for this world, but before he could move on to the next, he would have to suffer the pain of Malchus cutting the ears from his head.

  ‘Why, sir?’ Brando asked, more in confusion than revulsion.

  ‘Why not?’ Malchus laughed. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  I had no time to think about our commander’s trophy-collecting. Fires raged around us, and where there was no fire, the enemy were forming up in groups bent on killing.

  As we ran, we passed the first of our own dead.

  ‘Check that he’s done,’ Malchus ordered, wanting to save our men the agony of torture.

  I turned the soldier over. A German axe was buried deep in his chest.

  ‘He’s dead.’ I had to shout to be heard. The sound of fighting was scarce, but barked commands were everywhere. So too was the crackle of flames. Goats bleated in fear of the blaze. I saw men and children running with buckets, whilst the intent of most tribesmen seemed to be the protection of their meagre assets rather than the capture of the raiding party.

  ‘They’re not interested in us now,’ Malchus said as he took in the rippling flames that licked about us, the soot of his face streaked by sweat.

  It wasn’t until we had sneaked and sprinted our way to the outer edges of the enemy encampment that we realized the Germans had proved him wrong Between the enemy camp and our safety stood a strong skirmish line of German warriors.

  17

  The light of the fire shone back from a hundred iron shield bosses of German warriors positioned between ourselves and safety.

  ‘Remember your way to that trench?’ Malchus whispered.

  I did. It was our only chance to sneak by the line of enemy, though I had little hope that there would be anything stealth-like about our movements. The enemy were certain to have guarded it and, trapped in the narrow confines of the zigzaging trench, we would have to take them head on, and hope that spearmen did not appear above to spit us like fish.

  I led the way back into the warren of tents. The blaze was coming under control. We had to use the last of its distraction whilst we still could.

  ‘Just run,’ Malchus ordered.

  ‘Wait!’ Brando insisted instead. Without waiting for acknowledgment, he ducked inside a tent. A high-pitched plea from within was followed by a gurgle. Brando emerged seconds later, his blade bloodied and cloaks in his hand.

  ‘Good lad.’ Malchus smiled, taking one. I wrapped the other about my shoulders.

  ‘You can lead the way?’ I asked the Batavian. He was our best chance of navigating the camp now.

  He nodded sternly and we hurried on, the raised bank of the outer earthworks visible in the light of the flames. A few solitary figures paced this higher ground as we drew closer, but none paid attention to the three cloaked figures who strode brazenly towards the opening of a zigzag trench.

  We dropped down into mud. The smell of wet soil filled my nostrils. The walls of the trench dampened sound, the noise of the camp’s chaos instantly muted.

  ‘You done this before?’ Malchus asked me.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Take the left wall. I’ll take the right.’

  I did, sticking close to the soil, Malchus a half-pace beside me on my flank. Brando walked backwards behind us to watch our rear, occasionally peering above the lip to check that we were not placing ourselves like eels in a wicker trap.

  We came to the first zigzag of the trench. It angled to the right as we faced it, which placed me on the exposed side. If there was an enemy warrior waiting in the shadows he would see me first, and lunge. Malchus, tight on the right, would have a moment to strike as the man came at me and exposed his own flank. When the trench turned left, our roles would be reversed. A heartbeat of hesitation from either one of us could see the other dead.

  The first of the enemy we encountered was still raising his blade when Malchus’s sword chopped through his throat. I moved past the fallen man quickly, his companion’s wide eyes flashing with terror before I plunged the blade into his heart. It stuck deep, and it took my foot on the man’s chest to pull the blade free from the body’s suction, air gasping as I finally succeeded.

  We moved onwards. Inch by inch, mouths dry, hearts beating. Eyes adjusted to the gloom, but visibility was still measured in yards.

  I took the wide sweep on another right angle. There was a brief flash as the axe flew by my head, and buried itself in soil. Then there was a scream as my blade found guts, and blood jetted out over the tribesman’s beard.

  It had been a loud scream.

  The cries of alarm followed a heartbeat later.

  ‘Fuck it!’ Malchus ordered. ‘Over the side! Go!’

  We obeyed, Brando pushing my legs up and over before I turned to help pull him out. Malchus came out alone, vaulting clear like a thoroughbred horse.

  We had cleared the enemy’s skirmish line, but only just, and warriors now came at us from the darkness, screaming revenge and murder.

  ‘Go!’ Malchus shouted. ‘Run! Get to the fort!’

  And so, for the second time, Brando and I ran from the German trench. On this night, the enemy were not about to allow our escape without pursuit.

  Fuck, some of them were fast. I imagined these were the youngest and the most headstrong, eager to make a name for themselves and desperate to wipe clean some of the humiliation that the tribes had endured that day. Two of them cleared ahead of their pack like cheetahs, axe heads flashing as their arms pumped in stride.

  ‘Keep going!’ Malchus ordered us, before turning to face the enemy.

  The German pair had been fast sprinters, but that counted for nothing once they closed on Malchus, who had speed where it counted: in his sword arm. I heard their screams, but I did not stop to look. I would not stop, I promised myself. I would not stop.

  But my body thought differently.

  My legs buckled.

  I went down hard, my head bouncing from the dirt. Brando stopped instantly and turned to my aid as Malchus rushed to rejoin us, the enemy close on his heels.

  ‘Get up!’ he screamed. ‘Keep going!’

  I tried, Brando grunting as he hauled at my tunic, but I managed only a single pace before my legs failed me again. All the miles, all the wounds, caught up with me now to condemn me before the fort’s walls.

  ‘Go,’ I begged Brando.

  He
would not.

  Malchus arrived beside us. His eyes flashed from me to the enemy. Less than ten breaths and they would be on us.

  ‘I know, sir.’ I gasped for air. As Malchus had ordered, I would die by my own hand. I would not be a plaything for the Germans. ‘I’ll finish it myself,’ I told him.

  ‘Shut up and run!’ the centurion roared at me instead.

  I tried – fuck, I tried – but I had reached the end of my road, and so as I collapsed on to my back, I took the point of my blade and pressed it into my throat, praying that I would have the strength to push it home before the enemy took hold of me.

  ‘Go,’ I pleaded, readying myself to end it all. ‘Go!’ I barked.

  They would not.

  And then the sky rained fire.

  18

  My eyes were closed. I was picturing the fire arrows that had streaked through the sky above me as Malchus and Brando had grabbed my tunic and dragged me like a corpse to the fort’s wall. There I had tried to stand, but my limbs had mutinied, failing to obey the simplest command. That did not condemn me, for the awesome display of force from the fire arrows had deterred the German pursuit, and so we were unmolested as ropes were lowered, and I was trussed up like a calf to be lifted on to the battlements and carried to my barrack room.

  I opened my eyes to daylight, finding three pairs peering back at me: Folcher, Brando, Stumps.

  ‘You daft cunt,’ the Roman grunted.

  I sought out Brando. ‘Thank you.’

  The Batavian shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You should eat,’ his companion urged.

  I shook my head. From the tight feeling of my skin, I knew that I was decorated in dried blood. I wanted it off me. The gnawing hunger in my stomach could wait.