Darwin's Soldiers

by Ste Sharp

  Mata gave Sir William a stare that could de-feather a chicken. ‘No, I have never seen a lion before.’ He grimaced, controlling his pain.

  Euryleia joined them. ‘Can I help?’ She squinted at the cuts. ‘We must stop the bleeding.’

  ‘You need to clean the wounds first.’ Sir William turned. ‘I’ll leave you to it…’

  Euryleia poured water over Mata’s chest, who could do little to resist.

  ‘I found this plant.’ She held a segment of flat, red root in her palm. ‘It’s similar to one we use in my land to draw poisons. I could make a poultice for the cuts.’

  Mata nodded and stared into the branches above.

  Althorn stepped away to look at the headless lion and the remains of the Thai spearman. The Sikh swordsman was explaining what had happened to those who hadn’t seen: ‘…threw him to the ground and I made my move.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s over now,’ Althorn said.

  The swordsman shook his head. ‘I have fought man-killers before… but the spearman. His death was avoidable.’

  ‘His armour probably helped him survive longer than I would have done,’ Crossley said, fingering the debris of precious jewels scattered around the dead man.

  ‘For all the good it did him,’ John said.

  Even after witnessing countless deaths, Althorn still found it a numbing experience. ‘There was nothing you could have done,’ Althorn told John, who cradled his gun against his chest. ‘Strange things are happening here which are beyond our understanding.’

  John nodded.

  ‘You with the, err… gun?’ Euryleia called out to John. ‘He’s asking for you!’

  Althorn followed John to Mata, who was lying at the base of a tree with an improvised bandage across his chest.

  ‘Mata – I’m so sorry I couldn’t help.’ John crouched beside the Maori.

  Mata smiled. ‘Next time I’ll set a trap instead, eh?’

  Althorn cast a glance at the lifeless boar. ‘Looks like you had to earn your meat.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll take a slice of lion too. To give me extra strength.’

  Althorn smiled and remembered how Mata had deflected the lion’s charge. ‘I don’t think you have to worry about that, Mata.’

  ‘You know this man’s name?’ The Sikh joined them.

  ‘Yes,’ John said.

  ‘Did you know his name?’ He pointed at the torn body of the Thai spearman.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Why?’ The swordsman frowned. ‘We have lost men and we didn’t know their names. If I die in this land, I want you to know my name, my traditions… and burn my body on a pyre.’

  ‘I don’t know what this man’s rites would be,’ Althorn replied. ‘But we should bury him to keep his body from scavengers.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘But what about names?’ The Sikh looked from soldier to soldier. ‘We must introduce ourselves properly. I will start… my name is Randeep Bhangu.’

  ‘Right then,’ Althorn said. ‘You all know I am Althorn.’

  ‘Yes.’ Randeep turned to Sir William.

  ‘Yes, well, I am Sir William Lavalle.’ The knight looked at Crossley. ‘But seeing as titles are of little use in this country, you may call me Lavalle.’

  Each person took their turn, throwing their name to the wind, in what looked like some bizarre ritual for the dead Thai spearman.

  ‘Euryleia of Scythia…’

  ‘I thought you were an Amazon?’ Lavalle looked perplexed.

  ‘Amazon?’

  ‘The Greeks’ name for your people.’ Crossley helped out. ‘You know, those guys your ancestors fought with at Ilium?’

  Euryleia squinted a little and raised her chin, suggesting she thought Crossley was making a joke.

  ‘Anyways… I’m David Michael Crossley. US Marine Corps. Sapper. Just call me Crossley.’

  ‘Sapper?’

  ‘An engineer. Construction, tunnels and… I blow things up.’

  The Day Watch continued to name themselves, giving their rank and the name of their country or tribe.

  ‘I am Tobar Secundius, centurion of the glorious Roman army of Emperor Septimius Severus.’

  ‘I am Mata Tiri Nui of the Ngati Rahiri tribe of Aotearoa.’ The Maori was sitting up now.

  John stepped forward sheepishly. ‘My name’s John Greene – Royal Fusiliers, Thirty-second Battalion. Machine gunner.’

  ***

  After burying the Thai warrior in the glade, the Day Watch abandoned the lion’s body and used the Thai’s pike to spear and carry the dead hog. They travelled without speaking, which John soon realised was because these great warriors were afraid: afraid of what other horrors this land had in store for them. Back in Flanders, John knew who the enemy was and what weapons they used, but this land was as unsettling as it was dangerous.

  A couple of hours after the glade, Tobar, the Roman, shouted down the line, ‘Whose turn is it to carry the pig?’

  No one replied.

  ‘How about you?’ the centurion bellowed at John. ‘The short man with the gun.’

  John looked up at Mata beside him, then back at Tobar. ‘I…’

  ‘You’re what?’ The Roman laid the boar down, blocking the path. ‘We should share the burden… unless you don’t want to eat tonight?’

  ‘No, it’s not that, I…’

  Mata stepped forward, eyes glaring.

  John winced. ‘Look, we don’t need any trouble, it’s just…’

  ‘He’s injured,’ Euryleia stepped in.

  ‘He doesn’t look injured to me,’ Randeep said, ‘and if he can carry that gun he can carry the pig.’

  ‘Show him,’ Mata said, without taking his eyes off the Roman.

  Euryleia laid a hand on his arm, ‘You don’t have to, John.’

  John shivered and held his arm tight, fearing he would be rejected if they saw what had happened to him.

  ‘Show him,’ Mata repeated and turned to him. ‘There is no shame.’

  With a sigh, John unhooked the straps of his webbing and lowered his gun to reveal his merged hand and gun.

  The warriors grouped around gasped.

  ‘Step back!’ Mata shouted.

  ‘He’s cursed!’ Tobar said.

  ‘His hand is stuck, that’s all,’ Euryleia said.

  ‘It’s more than stuck,’ the Roman said, ‘it’s being eaten by the metal!’

  John recognised the sympathetic looks he’d seen when visiting friends in field hospitals: the looks of pity. He pulled his arm back. ‘Well, whatever’s happened I can’t go bloody lifting any pigs now, can I?’

  The Roman shrugged. ‘No, but we all have to earn our place in the group,’ he said and walked off, leaving the boar on the ground.

  ***

  John unstrapped his arm and checked his hand in the light of their evening fire. His fingers had sunk deeper into the black metal body of the gun, which was now moulding over his tingling fingertips. God knows what will happen when my hand gets inside, he thought.

  It was strange how detached he’d become about it, but John knew war had a power to disconnect soldiers from aspects of life. The noise, death and destruction gave you a different perspective on what was important and, as far as John was concerned, he was alive and wasn’t in pain, so he’d nothing to complain about.

  He cast an eye around the camp. The surreal grouping of soldiers and warriors was still a sight to behold. Relaxing around the main fire, Lavalle reclined beside Euryleia, while the intimidating, tattooed face of John’s friend Mata glimmered in the firelight near the hooded figure of Althorn and the blue turban of Randeep, who was walking over to join him. John could see how, in ages past, these warriors were worshipped for their prowess and skill. War was an art to them and death was glorious. So, if he was surrounded by great – if not the greatest – warriors on Earth, why was he among them? He was no skilled swordsman like the Sikh or veteran of countless battles and sieges like Lavalle. The only thing that connected John
to everyone else was the number of men he’d killed. Was that all it came down to?

  Althorn turned the boar on its spit and clear fat bubbled and dripped out of the cooking flesh, exploding on the hot logs below. It was the best food John had smelt for months.

  ‘I can take over for a bit, Althorn,’ John said.

  ‘No, you rest.’ Althorn glanced at John’s arm and gave a fatherly smile.

  John blinked and turned from the fire to Mata. Even though he was injured, Mata had stood up for him against Tobar. John smiled: a proper warrior was on his side! He had to return the favour.

  Crossley returned from the perimeter, grinning. ‘I’ve set a few traps… for food, not enemies.’

  ‘Sounds like an easier way to get food,’ Mata said.

  ‘The lion could have been a one-off, you know.’ Crossley tried to lighten the mood. ‘An escapee from a zoo or an old pet someone had forgotten about.’

  ‘He looked wild enough to me.’ Randeep’s eyes stayed transfixed on the fire.

  Crossley shrugged.

  There was no point in hiding his gun now, so John looked at his fused hand again. A small nodule of metal had appeared where the tip of his little finger had been absorbed, and the gun had changed elsewhere: the barrel was shorter and the trigger had moved. He nonchalantly poked the logs with the muzzle and stared into the hypnotic flames while he watched Euryleia preserving morsels of food in the wood smoke as she talked to Lavalle.

  ‘I was on my horse. We’d been tracking a group of bandits who had attacked an outlying village some days before.’

  Lavalle was silent, staring into the flames.

  ‘They had burnt the houses, taken women, children and food,’ Euryleia paused, ‘so when we found them crossing the plain, we ambushed them. I fired three, maybe four arrows – two kills, one maimed – then they started firing back. But we had them surrounded. We started picking them off one by one. I hit one in the chest and the sound of my horse’s hooves faded away… like I was riding on sand.’

  ‘And the light changed?’ Lavalle asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Euryleia turned to Lavalle but he looked away.

  ‘The last thing I saw were the children taking off their bonds.’ Euryleia looked at Lavalle and waited.

  Euryleia wanted to hear about Lavalle’s last battle, but the knight remained silent. John felt ashamed for listening and looked away.

  ‘Strange Lavalle doesn’t share his story, hey?’ Crossley whispered, having listened in too.

  John shrugged.

  ‘He’s odd.’ Crossley shook his head. ‘I mean, he’s a Knight Hospitaller right? So why didn’t he see to Mata’s wounds? And where’s his armour?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ John looked back at Lavalle, wondering what his story was. His arm twitched. ‘This whole place is messed up.’

  ‘True,’ Crossley said. ‘It wasn’t chance those mushrooms were growing by the obelisk.’

  ‘So who put them there then?’ Randeep asked.

  ‘Whoever brought us here I guess.’

  ‘What do you think, Lavalle?’ Randeep asked. ‘Who has brought us here?’

  Lavalle tensed before answering. ‘A greater mind is at work here. Surely only God would be so great?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Crossley said. ‘You aren’t saying God has brought us here?’

  ‘Who else would have that power?’ Lavalle stood up, wearing the same annoyed look as before, and Crossley shifted to keep the fire between him and the tall knight.

  ‘Listen.’ Crossley held out a hand. ‘I may have been wrong about what sort of life you’ve had, okay, but you can’t go saying stuff about God as if you own him.’

  John felt his cheeks warm and looked around for Althorn, but he couldn’t be seen. He was usually the one to calm things down.

  Lavalle didn’t move, but his furrowed brow showed his mind was racing. ‘I would never presume to… own God, but no other power is strong enough to bring us here.’

  His tone was reserved, thought John. Did he feel bad about threatening Crossley earlier?

  Lavalle continued, ‘God has taken me to some inhospitable places. Who am I to know his plan?’

  Crossley was about to reply when John let out a yell. He leapt up with his gun-arm in the air.

  ‘My arm’s on bloody fire!’ he shouted.

  Everyone stared, open-mouthed. John grabbed the nearest canteen and poured it over the hot muzzle, sending a thin trail of steam into the canopy. Then he looked at the firelit faces. A smile appeared on one, then another, followed by sniggers of laughter which grew contagious until someone burst out laughing.

  ‘You’re supposed to look after your weapon, remember?’ Crossley’s laugh was the loudest.

  ‘And your weapon will look after you!’ someone shouted back.

  John hung his head sheepishly.

  ‘Alright, alright… stop laughing,’ he said, but couldn’t help but join in.

  ***

  Mihran was up before dusk, using the last hour of daylight to check on those injured by the raging elephant. He was desperate to make up ground and worried they would slow them down.

  Two days gone, twelve left.

  Silently stepping over bodies, he checked those with broken bones, hoping their makeshift splints would allow them to travel, and listened to those with internal injuries. Two soldiers had died in their sleep: a Hebrew swordsman and a French rifleman.

  He was barely conscious of it, but Mihran had created a collage of the group in the back of his mind. It was a subtle mesh of each soldier’s abilities and prowesses: how they balanced and complemented one another, both as a travelling group and as a fighting unit. With the dead men removed from the collage, it reshaped accordingly.

  A silhouette and a faint green light caught his attention.

  ‘Good evening,’ Li whispered, scanning the dead bodies.

  ‘These two are–’

  ‘Yes. A shame. I’ve scanned everyone else and nobody should slow us down.’

  Mihran smiled. ‘Wounds heal quick here,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Li agreed and looked up at the dwindling light. ‘We should wake everyone and pack before sundown.’

  Samas stepped forward and gestured at the strips of elephant meat they had left smoking during the day. ‘And pack the rest of the meat.’

  It seems I’m not the only one who can’t sleep, Mihran thought and turned to Samas. ‘My children often had trouble sleeping after a nightmare.’

  Samas sniffed sharply.

  ‘How shall we carry such a quantity of meat?’ Mihran goaded him again.

  Samas stared at him. ‘We’ll wrap it,’ he looked around, ‘in leaves or in the clothes of the dead, for all I care.’

  ‘You would show disrespect for our fallen allies?’ Mihran was enjoying this. It felt good to taunt him and get such a quick response.

  ‘No.’ Samas was squirming. ‘But food is scarce.’

  Mihran took a step forward. ‘You risk our safety by weighing us down and–’

  ‘Stop!’ Li stepped between the men.

  Samas raised a finger. ‘Do not tell me to–’

  ‘Or what?’ Li cut the Babylonian off. ‘And you?’ Li faced Mihran. ‘You’re both wise enough to know I could cut you down in a second.’

  The argument woke the rest of the group, who stirred.

  ‘You are both from the same land for God’s sake… Damascus, Herat and Byzantium… same cities – different names maybe, but you both fought for the same land.’ Li looked at each one in turn. ‘Surely you can find some common ground?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mihran looked down his nose at Samas, remembering his history lessons. ‘I am fully aware of how the Persian Empire crumbled under Alexander’s heel.’

  Samas narrowed his eyes. ‘It would have been a different story if I hadn’t been taken from my battle, believe me!’

  ‘Ha!’ Mihran turned and walked off.

  An hour later, as the Night Watch moved through the forest at a fast pa
ce, Mihran remained silent, preoccupied by Li’s words. The cities had just been dots on a map to him: trophies to be fought and won; nothing more than a list of victories; weak armies and soft citizens lucky to be taken under the wing of the Arab expansion. Mihran pictured the cities and the sieges, and his last battle came back to him as he walked.

  General Khalid ibn al-Walid’s outnumbered army had been fighting the Byzantine army for six solid days in the August heat of Yarmouk, east of the Sea of Galilee. The Arab army had been wearing the enemy down with day after day of infantry manoeuvres and hammer-and-anvil tactics, raiding the enemy flanks with light cavalry. On this last day, General Khalid had victory in his sights.

  Days of fighting on horseback had taken their toll on Mihran, yet he daren’t show it. He was high-born, from the Quraish tribe, with the honour of becoming a great warrior bestowed upon him from birth. He had been trained in martial arts, on horseback and on foot, and was a master of them all. He excelled with the lance, sword or bow and had switched between all three as he and his team of horsemen had repeatedly wheeled from one section of the battle to another, crashing into enemy lines with sharp blades swinging.

  It was on a raid, as his unit of armoured horses smashed into the exposed flank of Byzantine centurions and Mihran’s lance sheared through shield and breastplate at a terrifying speed, that he sensed the noise of battle slip away, replaced by an echoing ticking sound, and then a surge of energy radiating from his body until – flash – the blood, the dust and the sun had disappeared.

  Mihran looked back at the silhouettes of the gaggle of soldiers he now commanded and wrinkled his nose. These were just low-born fighters pretending to be soldiers. Poor imitations of himself, they faked the virtues of a great hero: honesty, strength and courage.

  ‘Your battle speed is impressive.’ He heard Li speaking to the tall Zulu warrior.

  ‘I am battle-ready in seconds,’ the Zulu explained. ‘In my land there are many night raids on villages.’

  ‘I see,’ Li replied. ‘You are one of Shaka’s men?’

  ‘Yes.’ The Zulu sounded surprised. ‘Ndleleni is my given name.’

  ‘On the road,’ Li replied, seemingly translating. ‘You use the assegai?’