‘Tell me a story,’ I told Stumps, desperate for distraction.
He looked at me with surprise. I’d never asked for such a thing before. ‘I’ll tell you a story. It’s about a soldier who stands shivering his balls off in the cunting rain whilst his dickheaded officers sit in their quarters drinking wine and dreaming up new ways to fuck us over.’
‘Cheer up, Stumps. We’ll be at the Rhine in two days,’ Livius tried, the youthful section commander yet to realize that the time to worry about a soldier like Stumps was when he was not complaining.
‘Yeah, I can just see us doing that,’ Stumps scowled. ‘I mean we’ve had great preparation for it, haven’t we? Standing on a wall. And then there’re the civvies. I’m sure they’re all great fucking athletes. Olympians. We’ll probably reach the Rhine by morning.’ Sarcasm dripped from him with the rain.
‘Don’t you want to get home?’ Titus tried instead, his words as hard and as flat as hammered steel.
‘Course I do,’ Stumps allowed.
‘Then save your energy for the road.’ His friend was firm but gentle.
‘Here comes Albus,’ Brando noted, and I saw the curdled face of our centurion appear before the ranks.
‘Stand down. Back to your rooms,’ he ordered.
A chorus of groans and questions was launched like arrows in return, demanding why we had been kept shivering in the elements.
‘I don’t fucking know!’ Albus answered. ‘We stay on immediate notice. Fall out.’
Entering the room, Stumps made straight for the stove. Its embers were still glowing, and he hastily set about reviving them.
‘What the fuck was that about?’ he grumbled. ‘ “Oh, go on lads”,’ he mimicked. ‘ “Go stand out in the fucking rain. Not like you’ve got anything better to do!” ’
‘Maybe Caedicius got cold feet,’ Brando suggested, stripping off his sodden cloak.
‘I’ve got cold balls, never mind feet,’ Stumps shot back. ‘My cock’s halfway inside me.’
‘Makes a change from fully inside a Syrian.’ Titus smiled as he slapped his friend gently over the head. ‘I don’t think he got cold feet,’ he went on. ‘Him and Malchus probably just wanted to test the garrison. Make sure every unit was ready.’
‘I think the fact that we’re all half frozen is proof of that,’ Stumps replied as he stepped back from the growing flames of the stove. ‘What do you think, Felix?’
I expected that Titus was right, and Caedicius had wanted to test the readiness of his men. Such a trial was unwanted – even considered an insult – by those who had sprung ready when summoned, only to have to stand shivering, but there were doubtless some in the garrison who would not have reacted as smoothly to the order, and they could now be put on notice, and watched. It was just another part of life under the eagles, another part of war, and I hoped that my sullen answer would explain as much to my comrade.
‘It’s soldiering,’ I told him.
And then our wait began anew.
If confusion about the conspiracies of our commanders was a part of soldiering, then waiting was what was at the profession’s core. ‘Hurry up and wait’ was a common refrain for a reason, and a legionary would spend far more time in his career passive and immobile than he would in the thrust of a campaign. Even invasions of enemy territory were preceded by long periods of inactivity, then broken with a few short moments of frenzied action. In battle, a soldier could stand looking at his enemy for hours before the commanders made their decision to attack, their orders were passed, and the men found the courage to close the distance and fight. Then it would all be over in a horrid, blood-soaked blur.
Titus knew the truth of all this, and absorbed the delay like the veteran he was, unquestioning and uncaring. Stumps occupied himself with second-guessing our leaders and doubting the ethics of their sexual practices. Micon and Brando passed it in silence, while the Batavian broke it mostly to offer prayer to his gods, who he still feared were angry with him for the murder of Statius, the subsequent death of Balbus being just a part to their punishment. Brando would be far from the only one within the camp to offer prayer, and more, and I expected that the space beneath the altars would be thick with gifts and offerings for the gods, beseeching them for deliverance from what was to come.
Knuckles rapped on the door of our barrack room. ‘Prepare to move,’ a voice called over the wind and rain.
‘Here we go then.’ Stumps smiled. ‘Think this one’s the real thing?’
‘It’s getting dark,’ Titus answered. ‘We go now, or it won’t be tonight.’
We didn’t tell each other good luck. We didn’t say goodbyes. We simply met the looks of our comrades. We all knew what was in our minds. A knowing nod or a touch on the arm was enough, and then we stepped forth into the storm, and fell into the ranks of the century, Livius checking all the men of his section dutifully for the correct equipment and its proper carriage. All, that was, except for myself and Titus. Livius recognized us as the most salted men in the century, and that experience both awed and frightened him.
I knew what was in the young man’s mind. I had once been him, the ambitious soldier with potential. I had looked at the veterans’ cragged faces, cold eyes, and wanted to know what had made them like that. I wanted to know how I could become like that. A person to be feared. A person whose reputation could, by itself, protect all those around them.
The wind and rain had kept their strength, but the light of day was losing its battle. Black storm clouds were growing darker still as dusk came over the soon-to-be-abandoned fort, a blanket pulled over a corpse.
Rain bounced from the dirt that was already slippery beneath our feet. I caught Stumps’s smile and look; remind you of anything? I read in his dark eyes.
There were no torches. No lights. Centurion Albus made constant headcounts of the men in front of him – a nervous tic. He was not the only one in search of ways to distract his mind from fear, and despite the rain the ranks were thick with the sound of dark jokes and forced laughter.
I looked at our centurion, and wished that it was H who would be leading us into the night. Lying in the dirt with someone for two weeks – even in near silence – breeds a strong bond, particularly when it is under the nose of an enemy army, and it was with sadness that I was denied a chance to see the good man before our departure. H’s place was in the van with Caedicius, and I could only assume that the scouting knowledge of myself and Titus was now deemed either irrelevant or unworthy, because alongside a quarter-cohort of Syrian archers, our century would form the rearguard.
‘Century.’ Albus spoke in the darkness, catching me in my thoughts. ‘By the centre, quick march.’
With those simple words, the Fort of Aliso was abandoned.
66
We abandoned the fort like a guilty lover. Only because we had been told as much did I know that we were the last men to pass through the western gate and to strike out towards the Rhine. What was ahead or around us was nothing but a guess, the night’s storm robbing me of awareness of all but what was within two javelin lengths of me.
The ranks were silent now. There was time only for panted breaths, and no need for words of harsh encouragement from the officers – we all knew what the penalty would be for failing to cover a backbreaking distance. Dawn would expose us on the wrong side of the German army, and then we would die.
Even making it to the west of the enemy was no guarantee that we’d see out the daylight. At best we could hope to have a few miles between us and the forces we had slipped past, but they would be fresh, and fierce. Cavalry would harass and slow our advance. Eventually, bands of spearmen would crash into our exhausted ranks. There would be no drawn-out battle. It would be over in a blood-soaked hour.
Unless.
Unless the runners that Caedicius had dispatched to the Rhine had prepared the legions for our attempt. Unless they were ready to cross the bridges and come to our aid. I had no sure knowledge that this was the message the prefect
had sent with the men, but what else was there to say? What else was there to beg for? Without their help, we would be dead by noon.
Sixteen hours of life. Best then to savour the savagery of the storm. Best then to embrace the burning in my muscles, and the throbbing ache of my knees. The alternative was thought, and I had no wish to spend my dying hours cursing myself for the mistakes I had made when life had been an open road ahead of me.
Hour past hour. The storm held. So did the pace. It was steady, short of panic, and still I wondered how many civilians would have fallen by the wayside. How many would be making their own paths in the darkness, hoping that the fat target of a beaten garrison would distract the enemy from their own escape?
Enough of that. Concentrate on one foot in front of the other. Concentrate on the dull steel of the helmet in front of you. Concentrate on keeping your shoulders loose for when the time comes to draw your blade.
I told myself this. Over and over. Did I listen? Of course not. Instead I tortured myself. Relived my life, mistake by mistake, death by death. Perhaps this was my way of preparing for the end. So deep was my anger, so overwhelming my distress, that I would almost have welcomed an enemy blade in my guts.
Almost.
Stumps. Titus. Brando. Micon. H. Linza.
Six reasons I would parry that blade, and shove my own into the enemy’s chest.
Things had changed, I acknowledged. They’d changed in the forest, and now they’d changed in the fort. The hope of my future wavered between the dream of what could be in Britain, and the company that I was within.
Maybe we would make it, I dared to think.
Hour past hour. The storm held. So did the pace.
The civilians did not.
Panicked calls began to echo in the night. They were shrill with fear, shouted in Latin.
Titus spoke up, his voice like the rumble of thunder in the storm. ‘They must be losing the vanguard.’
‘They’ll be losing more than that if they don’t keep up,’ Stumps hissed. ‘How far you reckon we’ve covered, Felix?’
‘Eight miles? Nine?’
‘Fuck,’ Stumps swore, realizing what that meant.
We were on the wrong side of the enemy army, and the cries of the terrified civilians were cutting through the din of the storm, their harried voices like the bleat of frightened goats with the scent of wolf in their nostrils.
‘Fuck!’ Stumps cursed again, this time loudly, because now there were more voices in the darkness. Commanding voices, loud and angry.
‘That’s not Latin,’ Titus growled.
And then the wolf attacked.
67
Wind carried death’s symphony to our ears: the clash of blade on blade; the cry of orders; the screams of pain.
Stumps grimaced. ‘Vanguard’s getting it.’
The panicked cries in Latin were louder now. Moments later, we began to see the fleeting figures of fugitives streaming by our century, the lashing rain doing nothing to hide their terror.
‘They’re running back to the camp?’ Brando guessed.
‘They’ll die if they do,’ Titus grunted. No one pointed out that they could well die here – the sound of crashing shields spoke well enough to that.
‘You see that?’ Stumps shouted. ‘One of those civvies was running with half a villa in his arms!’
Peering into the darkness, I saw more figures escaping towards the false comfort of the fort. Many carried burdens, some even chests. With such loads, there was no way the untrained civilians could have kept pace with the vanguard of soldiers.
‘Fell behind and woke the goat-fuckers with their singing,’ Stumps sneered. ‘Fucking civvies. Should have left them in the fort. Linza excluded,’ he added quickly. ‘We’ll all get it, now.’
Was I worried for Linza? Of course I fucking was. I was worried for her, and for all of us. That’s why I looked to our flanks as we continued to push onwards. So far the noise of battle remained distant, but that would not hold for long, I was certain, and I braced myself for the rush of spear and shield I was certain was coming.
‘Form square!’ Albus called from ahead, his crest lost to me in the darkness.
‘Form square!’ section commanders repeated above the winds.
Hindered by the elements and a few figures of fleeing civilians, the century’s movements were sloppy, and Albus and his optio screamed oaths at anyone who threatened the tiny formation’s integrity. Our section found itself on the left flank, which meant that when we moved, we would be taking side steps to our right, our eyes always forward to the formation’s flank, and away from our direction of travel. It was a disorientating way to move, but gave us the all-round protection we needed.
‘Slow march!’ Albus ordered, finally satisfied, and the formation began to creep in the direction of the fighting ahead. After the forced pace of our march, the slow step was agony on minds now fuelled with fear.
We were the rearguard, and I knew what the slow march and square formation meant: Caedicius was using us as a lizard does its tail. We would occupy the attacker as the body made its escape.
‘Keep your shields up,’ Titus warned. ‘Be ready.’
‘Shields up,’ Livius echoed the veteran’s words. His voice had climbed an octave since battle had been joined ahead.
‘First time?’ Stumps asked, hearing the same.
‘I was on the raid,’ Livius offered.
‘So it’s your first time,’ Stumps told him, and I could imagine his playful grin. ‘You’ll be all right.’
As we crabbed towards the Rhine, still agonizingly distant, I took in the comrades by my side. Stumps was on my left shoulder, his face twisted into a mad man’s grin. I felt good that he was there, knowing that I could trust him with my blind side. He would die for me, I knew with no doubt, and I hoped that Micon to my right knew the same of me. His head was made of clay, but I was certain his heart understood that he was beloved of his comrades.
Titus’s bulk was a blur to the right of Micon, but beyond that I could make out nothing but vague shapes of shield and armour. Behind my back was the second file of the section, men I neither knew, nor, in all honesty, cared about more than any other soldier, or man. They were unknown to me, Livius the only one I knew by name. If we survived this battle, then likely I would know them as well as family. War created brothers with far greater speed than a mother’s womb.
Silence had fallen in the ranks. The sound of our steps, and of the bump of our weapons against shield, was lost to the wind and the cries it carried.
I stared on into the darkness.
There were orders being shouted in the black.
The sideswipe of my right foot hit something hard, and I glanced quickly down at the obstruction. It was dark, but it appeared to be a child’s toy: a whittled horse.
‘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.
68
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. Ther
e 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.
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