‘I can come with you, sir,’ I offered, my relief overtaken by guilt as the centurion turned me down.
‘I move faster alone. Get them to the surgeon, and then report to the prefect. He’ll need briefing,’ Malchus ordered, and with those words he was lost to the night.
39
I broke the cohort commander’s instructions as soon as the gates opened and we were met with the torchlight and nervous faces of the guard.
‘Where’s the rest of you?’ a salted centurion asked, his eye appraising wounds and the blood on our skin.
‘I need to brief the prefect, sir,’ I told the officer. ‘Can your men see these two to the hospital?’
‘We can see ourselves,’ one of the survivors answered gruffly. Having come so far, they would not be carried this final distance.
By the torchlight I met the man’s eye, admiring his courage. Now safe ourselves – at least for the moment – I knew that sickening worry for our comrades was about to come crashing down.
‘Go,’ the centurion told me. As I broke into a run, I heard him call orders to bring stretchers and surgeons to the gate. If – when, I forced myself to think – the century arrived, then the centurion and his guard would be ready.
The pounding of my sandals and my blood-coated arms caused civilians in the streets to run in panic. I did not even know if they were aware that a raid had been launched, and now panicked rumours would spread like a disease. The gossip would worry some, and thrill others. Here was a break in the monotony of the siege, paid for in blood.
‘I need to see the prefect!’ I called to the guards as I approached the headquarters building in the centre of the camp. ‘Centurion Malchus sent me,’ I explained between ragged breaths.
The soldiers were understandably wary of my appearance, and held their ground as one called inside for the guard commander. The veteran appeared quickly.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
I rattled off my particulars, moving straight into the reason for my appearance, and my need to see the fort’s commander.
‘They’re still out there,’ I finished.
I found myself in front of the prefect moments later. From the instant that he took in my desperate state, Caedicius’s face was drawn and grey.
‘You say Centurion Malchus has gone back?’ he asked me again.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Centurion Hadrianus?’
‘I don’t know, sir. After the fighting, I only saw the cohort commander, and the two men we came back with.’
That left a century and sixty archers unaccounted for. Caedicius’s jaw twitched with anger.
‘Shall I ready the men to march out, sir?’ a grey-haired centurion asked. ‘Screen them back in?’
Caedicius shook his head without hesitation. ‘No. No one leaves the fort. They’ll make it back by themselves.’ He offered the words up as if they were a prayer.
The prefect then gestured to me. ‘You can go, but remain here in headquarters.’
A clerk came forward to lead me from the now silent room. I was offered a stool in a small room that acted as a mess for the headquarters staff. ‘Can I get you food? Water or wine?’ the man asked me kindly.
I said nothing.
‘I’ll get them all.’ He smiled and returned in moments. I greedily snatched the water from his hands. The man took no offence, and I chugged deeply, draining it in moments.
‘I’ll go and get you another.’
The wineskin was also empty by the time the clerk returned. My indulgence was born not from thirst, but fear. With every moment that passed without news, the knot of terror in my stomach was growing. The grip of grief about my throat was closing.
My section. My friends. Could they all be dead?
I looked at the food in front of me, and pushed it away. I knew that it would be chalk in my mouth.
‘Was it … bad?’ the well-meaning clerk ventured.
My eyes told him all that he needed to know. As he looked into them he shrank back as if I were a growling dog.
‘It was bad,’ I confirmed, not wanting to scare away the one soul who was my company.
‘Would you like more wine?’
I thought for a moment. There was something I wanted more. ‘Could you do something else for me?’
The clerk was eager to help. Moments later, he was leaving with my messages. As he left the room, I realized that I had done all that I could. I was useless now, a piece cast aside and out of the game.
All I could do was hope, and pray.
I sneered at that thought, and instead got to my feet in search of wine, and oblivion.
40
By the time my message had been delivered, and Titus had joined me in the headquarters building, a second empty wineskin lay at my feet. The huge man dumped my requested replacement of armour and weapons alongside it.
‘Stumps?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him go down, but the century’s still out there.’
‘How bad was it?’ the big man asked, drawing up a stool beside me.
‘Chaos,’ I told the floor. ‘The whole mission was fucked from the beginning. No rain? No cloud cover? What the fuck did they think was going to happen?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Titus warned me, conscious of where we were.
‘I don’t know what happened to them, Titus.’ I shuddered. ‘What if …’
What if the Germans had taken them alive? What if the Germans were killing them by inches? Raping them? Skinning them? Burning them?
‘I should have died with them,’ I croaked, overcome with guilt and pity.
I didn’t see the hand coming. One second I’d been miserable and hunched on the stool, the next I was on the floor, my head singing from the blow.
Titus lifted me to my feet by the scruff of my tunic. ‘Finished feeling sorry for yourself?’
‘I shouldn’t have—’
He hit me again. I tasted blood in my mouth. Anger built to replace self-reproach.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ I spat at the man. ‘They’re out there, and I’m here! What do I do if they don’t come back?’
‘What the fuck do you think you do?’ Titus shook his head. ‘You remember them, and then you pick up your sword and you kill for them. This isn’t your first bad night, Felix, and you’re still standing.’
‘Well, maybe I don’t want to stand any more!’ I shot back.
‘Stop talking like a fanny. You were born to kill, whether you like it or not. And it’s still dark. It’s not over.’
‘And how am I supposed to wait until dawn? Tell me that, Titus? How am I supposed to sit here with my thumbs up my fucking arse while our friends are out there, dead or dying? How the fuck do I do that?’
‘I can help you, if you like?’ he asked me earnestly.
I gave him a pleading look. I just wanted to know. I wanted it to be over. I couldn’t stand the agony. The wait.
‘Please,’ I asked him, wondering what miracle he could work.
I saw nothing but a blur, and then his huge fist crashed into my jaw.
41
I woke in my barrack block, excited calls from the walls the first signs of the raiding party’s arrival, these heralds followed closely by the pounding tramp of sandals as soldiers and civilians rushed to the battlements, every soul within Aliso desperate to set eyes on the returning formation.
At least, what was left of it.
Reaching the top of the battlements, my heart dropped into my stomach. By the grey light of the dawn I saw a skeleton of a century limp its way towards the gate. Roman supported Roman, and behind them, arrows nocked as they crept backwards, were the Syrian archers.
‘Open the gates!’ a voice called from the walls. ‘Stretcher parties out! Surgeons, triage and then get them to the hospital!’
I went to join them, but something – someone – held me back.
Linza. My heart leaped and sank in the shock of seeing her.
&
nbsp; ‘Let them do it, Felix. You’re too tired,’ she told me, and from the ease with which she had stopped me, I knew that she was right. Instead, I searched the faces of the returning soldiers for men that I knew. Still cloaked by the last dregs of night, and the shadows of their helmets, I recognized only one man amongst the few dozen, his wide shoulders and height raising him above his comrades.
‘Brando!’ I shouted, my voice cracking. This time, there was no way for Linza to stop me, and I reached my comrade as he set weary feet inside the fort’s gate, throwing my arms about his mailed back as if I were a child.
‘Felix?’ he asked, puzzled, seeing a ghost. ‘How …’ His words trailed off. Instead, the Batavian embraced me.
I looked quickly for the other faces of my section, shrugging off the mystery of arrows that protruded from the bloody wounds of some of the raid’s survivors.
‘Felix!’ I heard, and in the scrum of bodies I turned to find Stumps, his arm over the shoulder of a bloodied Micon.
I pulled them both close to me, their heads touching mine. I was not the only soldier who let loose tears at this reunion between comrades.
‘Micon.’ I was worried, seeing the blood thick on his arms and face. ‘Are you hurt?’
The boy soldier shook his head. ‘Not mine,’ he mumbled.
‘How did you get back?’ Stumps managed. ‘We waited, but …’ His voice trailed away, racked with guilt.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I told him, meaning it. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Folcher’s dead,’ Stumps told me, his eyes on the fort’s dirt. ‘Dog, too.’
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes.
‘Dog.’ I breathed out. ‘How?’
‘Took a spear in his chest,’ my friend told me, swallowing at the memory. ‘It was over for him quickly.’
‘Statius?’ I asked.
‘Around here somewhere. Arrow sliced his arm.’
‘An arrow?’
Stumps’s face turned grey as he shot a look at the Syrian archers. These men were unbloodied, their heads bowed. Under command of a Roman centurion, they were being quickly shunted away. For the first time now, I noticed that abusive cries in Latin followed in their wake.
‘Sleep with your eyes open!’ one veteran of the Nineteenth called after them. ‘You’re gonna be waking with open throats!’
‘What happened?’ I asked Stumps, noticing now half a dozen Romans being loaded on to stretchers, the shafts of arrows sticking out of their flesh. With horror, I saw that Centurion H was amongst them.
‘When we left the rally point, H ran us to where the archers were waiting,’ Stumps explained, his voice dark. ‘He called out his part of the watchword, and we got an arrow back instead. It hit someone, they screamed, and then the next moment there were arrows everywhere.’
I swore, imagining the chaos. The terror.
‘Eventually they realized what they were doing,’ Stumps concluded, spitting pathetically on to the dirt. ‘But by then we had men down everywhere, the fucking lizards.’ He snarled.
‘Fifth Century!’ came the shouted order, cutting short my friend’s tirade. ‘Fall into formation. Don’t worry about sections, just get into three ranks. Move!’
The words had come from Malchus, and he cajoled the weary soldiers into obeying his orders. Within moments, those of the raiding party who could still stand were formed up in formation before him. Casting a quick eye over the ranks, I estimated that less than half of the century had escaped death or wounds to the point where they could still stand.
‘Century will form open order,’ the cohort commander then called. ‘In open order, march!’
The front rank took a pace forwards, the rear a pace backwards. Now, there was space for Malchus to walk by the men one by one. As he came closer, I heard words of encouragement. Praise for their deeds. He would not let the survivors of the raid slink away into the barracks like whipped dogs. He would remind them that they were soldiers. Killers.
‘Show me your blade,’ I heard him ask a young soldier, congratulating the young man on the steel painted red with German gore. ‘You made him dance, didn’t you?’ Malchus encouraged him. Then: ‘Did you lose a friend tonight?’ he asked.
‘I did, sir,’ the boy answered, attempting to rouse his courage.
‘Remember him every time you ram that blade into German guts. Make them pay for it. Every one. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what about you?’ Malchus asked Stumps beside me. ‘Missing fingers and an ear? You’re not a stranger to this, are you, soldier? Show this young lad your blade. Show him what it means to be a man in this army.’
For a moment, Stumps did nothing.
‘Did I speak into the wrong ear?’ Malchus asked, an edge of amusement to his iron tone. ‘Show him your blade.’
Stumps drew the short sword from its sheath; it was clean.
‘I like to stick them on the javelin, sir.’ Stumps covered, feigning confidence. ‘I like to see them wriggle on it.’
‘Good man.’ Malchus grinned, slapping him on his shoulder.
And then he came to me. We exchanged no words, just a look. A look from veteran to veteran. A look which acknowledged we had been fucked that night, and that the chances of the fort’s survival had ebbed along with the blood from those men who had been lost beyond the walls, and those who now screamed in the hospital as the surgeons set to their gruesome work.
It wasn’t long before Malchus had spoken with each man, and returned to the front of the formation.
‘We lost brothers tonight,’ he told us, without a hint of weakness in his voice. ‘We’ll lose more before this is all over. Being a soldier is about suffering, boys. It’s about these nights. What separates us from every other army in the world is what we do when we bleed. Others will run and hide from it. Not us. We’ll lick the blood from our blades, and we’ll go after these cunts again. We’ll go after them harder. We’ll go after them without mercy. By the time this war is over, every one of the Germans in that camp will be dead. Every one of their women will be raped. Every one of their children will be slaves. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the chorus of croaking voices.
‘Your centurion’s in the hospital, and your optio died with glory,’ Malchus went on. ‘We’ll restructure the century, but for now, go to your barrack rooms. Eat and sleep, but don’t you dare think about doing either until your kit is cleaned, and you’re ready to fight again, understood?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Good. Fall out.’
Walking back to the barrack block, I felt as though I were waist-deep in water and my legs were lead. Beside me, the men of my section moved like similar ghouls.
My section.
What was left of it? Brando, head on his chest, the Batavian grieving for his friend Folcher. Micon and Stumps were unhurt, at least in body. I suspected that the blood-free blade of Stumps was caused by an injury just as dangerous as any flesh wound. Balbus was already hospitalized with the corruption to his hand, and now Statius had joined him. Dog, a soldier I had liked but had never truly known, had died out of my sight from a German spear. Battle is a brutal blur, and it is fantasy to believe that a soldier witnesses the end of his comrades. As with Dog, the news of their end usually comes from a hushed comment, and sunken eyes.
‘Brando.’ I placed a hand on my friend’s shoulder. I hoped that in that word he would know how I grieved for him, and for Folcher. I hoped that my eyes were enough.
‘He was my best friend, Felix.’ Brando sighed, his big chest heaving. ‘My best friend, and I couldn’t bring him home. I left him in the trees.’
‘You did all you could.’
‘Do you know what they’ll do to his body?’ Brando asked me, exhausted.
We both did.
‘I should have carried him home.’ He meant to the besieged fort that we clung to like limpets to rocks.
‘And died yourself? Folcher wouldn’t have
wanted that.’
The Batavian nodded at the truth in my words. ‘But it doesn’t make it easier, does it?’
We cleaned our equipment in silence. Linza came and went to bring bowls of hot water, barley and soup. She spoke to Brando in their native tongue, and I knew that the language was a comfort to him. A tie to the comrade he had lost.
I expected Titus to arrive and to squeeze the life from his oldest living friend. I was wrong; his business partner Plancus hobbled into the room in his place.
‘Titus has to reissue equipment and organize the funeral rites,’ the old veteran informed us. ‘Two of the wounded died under the surgeon.’
‘Was one called Statius?’ I asked.
‘Doesn’t sound familiar. Anyway, he said he’ll come see you when he can.’
Then, equipment cleaned, and exhausted by exertion and grief, we fell back on to our bunks. At first I thought it was a dream when I felt the woman’s presence beside me, her arm over my shoulder, but then I saw blue eyes beneath strands of blond hair.
‘Sleep,’ Linza told me.
I closed my eyes.
42
When I woke, Linza had gone.
Daylight lit the room, but Brando and Micon snored on. Stumps fidgeted fitfully in a sleep that I was certain was full of bloodshed.
In search of water, I stepped outside of the barrack block. The fort was eerily quiet. The sight of the ravaged century had sent a shock of fear throughout the place. Arminius had pulled his troops from under the walls’ gaze and, out of sight, they had been out of mind for many of the fort’s occupants. There could be no such blissful ignorance now. Not whilst graves were being dug. Not whilst the unsanctioned families of the soldiery wailed over the loss of their loved ones.
I caught the eye of a veteran of my own century. A survivor, like myself. I had no idea of his name, but what did it matter? In many ways, this stranger was closer to me than the family I had been born into.
‘Hard to sleep, isn’t it?’ the veteran offered.
‘Thirsty,’ I told him.
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