Blood Forest Page 11

  For my own part, I had waited for this moment to break camp since fate had shoved me into the legion’s ranks – it was my opportunity to move closer to the coast, and Britain beyond it – but my near-empty purse was a problem, and after hours of thought, I had come to a troubling conclusion: I could desert with next to nothing and hope for the best, or I could steal from the very men I was beginning to see, despite my best efforts, as comrades.

  I didn’t like the choice that swam inside my head, and so I searched for some distraction by breaking the silence that had become expected of me. ‘It’s seventeen thousand.’ I spoke loud enough for the rank ahead to hear me over the din of the march. ‘Seventeen thousand troops, and about three thousand civvies in the baggage train.’

  Stumps twisted to look over his shoulder. He was not overly fond of me, taking his lead from Titus, but he was also bored, and as desperate for conversation as I was. I would have to do. ‘And you know that because …?’

  ‘Saw the lists in the quartermaster’s,’ I lied, not wanting to give away that the information had come, following Arminius’s release, from the standard-bearer at the eagles, or my reasons for being there.

  Stumps nodded at this, as if it only confirmed what he already knew of our strength. ‘He did you a favour, I reckon,’ he shouted back to me.

  ‘Who? The QM? How’s that?’

  ‘We got a long march. You wouldn’t have wanted those coins weighing you down!’ He laughed, and I could imagine the sly smile beneath the red cloth. ‘Hey, don’t look so upset!’ he went on. ‘Only another four months till the next payday!’ Stumps cackled at his own barb, doubtless hoping I would reply. ‘Where are you from, anyway?’ he asked when I held my tongue.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I lied.

  ‘You don’t know, eh? Well, you don’t sound Italian, and you don’t have ginger pubes like Rufus, so you’re not from Gaul. Can you really not remember?’ he pushed.

  ‘Nothing before they found me in the grove,’ I lied again.

  He thought on that for a moment.

  ‘I saw a bloke go mad once.’

  ‘Who?’ Moonface asked.

  ‘Not in the legions,’ Stumps told me. ‘When I was a kid. My neighbour found out his wife had been fucking his brother. Killed them both, and the two kids. When the smell got bad enough they found them in the house. The guy was still there, living in his own shit, talking over and over about how he was sent by the gods to do it.’

  ‘Maybe he was.’ Moonface, a religious man, shrugged. ‘She was fucking her brother.’

  ‘Her brother in-law,’ Stumps corrected.

  ‘Still.’

  ‘Well, I think he was just plain mad. Like this one,’ he concluded, with a bob of his head towards me. Then the man turned his eyes to the front, our conversation over.

  If only the march had been so short.

  It was sixteen miles of dusty, shoulder-numbing foot-slogging. With an army so large, any delay or halt towards the head of the column had a rippling effect along the body, so it was impossible to establish the usual pacing of four miles an hour, with regular stops to piss and take on a mouthful of water or wine. Instead, men took the chance when they could, though none but the most desperate wanted to leave the column to shit, aware that the marching beast could lurch back into motion at any minute. Like many others, I used the unexplained pauses to lean forward with my hands on my knees, taking the pressure from my shoulders and allowing the blood to move freely. It was a veteran’s trick, taking away the time-costly motion of stripping kit to achieve the same effect, and Micon and Cnaeus were soon copying the older soldiers.

  Our track that day had taken us north through flat lands and open pastures, and so it would have been a simple task for the pioneers and surveyors at the head of the column to find a suitable location for that night’s marching camp. When we arrived, the advanced party of engineers had already laid out the markers that would denote the placement of each century – the legion’s tented layout would be exactly as it had been at Minden, or any other station in the Empire.

  ‘I hope to bloody Jupiter, and whatever local god wants to listen, that it’s not us who has to build the rampart,’ Stumps groaned, referring to the earthen defences that would have to be erected about the camp’s entire perimeter.

  Perhaps it was the Germanic deities who granted his wish, as Pavo informed us that our century would form part of the half of the army to stand guard in full battle dress, while the second half completed construction of the rampart and tents.

  ‘Better off if we’d done the diggin’ tonight,’ Chickenhead told the section. ‘It’ll be our turn tomorrow, now, and you’re always stiffer on the second day.’

  ‘You remember what stiff is, old ’un?’ Stumps grinned, grabbing at his crotch, but, drained from the day’s march, no one rose to the horseplay.

  The section formed into a single rank, looking out over the peaceful German countryside. It was late evening, the sun still bright and the air warm. A bead of sweat trickled down alongside the cheek-plate of my helmet, and I pushed a finger inside to wipe it.

  ‘So you’re human after all, eh?’ The rare words came from Rufus, a wistful smile on his ruddy face.

  ‘I’m human,’ I replied cautiously, unsure why he had broken tradition and addressed me; the red-haired Gaul usually seemed to place a high price on words with even his closest companions. Perhaps he was seeking distraction from the thought of parting with his family, as they, like most of the army’s followers, would journey to the Rhine via the River Lippe and its string of Roman-occupied forts.

  He took my measure for a moment longer; then he turned his gaze to the southern end of the growing encampment. I followed his interested eyes.

  There was a troop of cavalry approaching, moving in stops and starts, seemingly addressing the work parties of men who had stripped off their armour and substituted javelins for picks.

  ‘Some bloody inbred officers, inspecting the work and inspiring the troops,’ Stumps surmised sarcastically.

  ‘No.’ Chickenhead shook his head, appraising with a salt’s eye. ‘The gentry are built like stalks. Those are big men. German auxiliaries.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Stumps retorted. ‘Why’d they be checking the defences? Coin says you’re full of shit.’

  Chickenhead assented with a nod, the sallow skin of his neck flapping with the vigour of the motion.

  ‘Bollocks,’ Stumps said again, a few minutes later, this time because the riders were clearly in sight, and clearly German. They stopped at the leftmost section of our century, and I saw a finger point in our direction. The cavalry moved towards us, but it took me a moment to recognize their leader, his face cast into shadow beneath his helmet.

  It was Berengar, Arminius’s bodyguard. ‘Felix,’ he greeted me, chewing over his Latin.

  ‘He’s bloody famous with the goat-fuckers, this one,’ I heard Stumps whisper over my shoulder. Fortunately, the words were missed by the German, who outweighed even Titus.

  Berengar’s eyes sought out our own giant now, figuring Titus as the section commander, and addressed him: ‘Orders from the prince. I talk to this one.’ And, without waiting for a reply, he tugged on his horse’s reins so that the beast walked away from our lines.

  I turned to Titus.

  ‘Go,’ he grunted with remarkably little interest. Whatever was on his mind was clearly bothering him deeply, but that was a puzzle for another time.

  I left the line, joining Berengar beyond hearing of the Roman troops. The German swung down from his saddle, the speed of the movement rendering me defenceless against his surprise attack.

  He embraced me, and the air left my lungs in a cough. When he finally stood back, I saw that his eyes were wet.

  ‘Thank you,’ he told me, before deciding that his attempt at Latin had not done justice to the meaning of the words. ‘Thank you,’ he stressed again.

  I was too taken aback to speak. Putting a paw-like hand on my shoulder, Berengar took i
t as an invitation to continue.

  ‘Arminius is a father to me, but also a brother, a son and a friend. You understand?’ He gestured to the cavalry troopers behind him. ‘To all of these men. You saved his life. You are also, now, my brother.’

  I could feel that the words were genuine, and heartfelt. Exactly the kind of words that made me so uncomfortable that my skin burned and itched with anxiety. ‘Where is he now?’ I asked, desperate to avoid more gushing adoration.

  ‘He rides to the tribe,’ Berengar answered, after considering his words. ‘He gathers the warriors, and then he will come back. Join the army.’

  ‘How many warriors?’

  ‘Enough,’ he answered, with a shrug.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘We stay. Varus needs guides. He needs German help, but he does not like to ask.’

  ‘But he likes Arminius.’

  ‘As a son,’ Berengar agreed.

  ‘Will there be battle?’ I asked finally.

  The big German seemed to weigh the question, and his answer. He even looked up at the clouds, as if attempting to divine the weather.

  ‘Arminius is a son to Varus,’ was his final answer, before pulling me into another embrace. ‘You have a good friend in him, and a brother in me. Remember this.’

  With those words hot in my ears, Berengar pulled himself into the saddle and led his troopers into a trot northwards.

  I couldn’t understand why his words had left my stomach sour and churning. Like the droplets of blood at the bridge, some visceral reaction had been caused by a reason I could not fathom. My head began to throb, my heart thumped, and I knew that on this march towards uncertainty, I could at least be confident of one thing: that despite the sweat and toil of this day, I suddenly dreaded the prospect of sleep.

  I knew that the nightmare was coming.

  18

  ‘You’re awake.’ Chickenhead greeted me in his matter-of-fact tones, his pinched face and gizzard emerging from the section’s tent flap. It was before dawn, and my eyes, red-rimmed with fatigue, would still be hidden from him by the fading darkness.

  ‘I am,’ I replied simply.

  The veteran lowered himself on to the ground beside me, rubbing at the toes of his bare feet. ‘You can’t keep that up forever,’ he said, after working his way from big toe to small.

  ‘No,’ I answered, before deciding that I owed him more. ‘What’s in that?’

  I was referring to a small clay pot, from which he now removed a cork-stop. The veteran poured some of the liquid on to his hands, and began to massage it into the cracking skin of his feet.

  ‘Toughens the skin up. We’ve been sitting around too much this summer. Getting soft, every which way.’

  ‘It stinks of piss,’ I grunted, wafting the air.

  ‘I think that’s an ingredient, yes. Wine, piss, who knows?’ He shrugged, unconcerned. ‘If a bit of piss on my feet stops them going raw with blisters, then I’m all for it. You want some?’ he asked, holding the foul-smelling pot out to me.

  I declined, but not out of any sensibility. A year’s solitary march across the continent had given the skin of my feet an almost armour-like thickness. Chickenhead had noticed.

  ‘You came a long way,’ he offered without accusation. ‘Further than the forts on the Rhine.’

  ‘Maybe I was recruited in Italy,’ I answered, willing to play the game, if only because the alternative, sleep, was worse.

  ‘Maybe.’ The veteran smiled, and I saw his few remaining teeth glinting in the gloom. ‘If you were Italian …’

  We sat in silence as he finished applying the ointment. Soldiers tried all kinds of potions, some created by their own hands, others bought from the sellers that dogged an army. Most were useless, but a salt like Chickenhead was experienced enough to sniff out – literally – the good from the bad.

  ‘You sure?’ he asked, holding out the pot a final time. I shook my head, and he replaced the stopper. Perhaps sensing that the foul odour had dispersed, Lupus the kitten now pushed his way from under the canvas and crawled on to Chickenhead’s lap.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ The veteran greeted his companion with deep affection, stroking him as he looked up at the skies. ‘Shit,’ he groaned, snapping back to his more usual sullen self. ‘I thought it was a bit dark for this time of the morning.’

  I nodded. The clouds had grown thicker under the moon’s watch, low and menacing. ‘Think it’ll break today?’ I asked him.

  ‘Tomorrow, latest.’ He shrugged. ‘Bollocks.’

  We sat in silence then. Slowly the camp began to come alive. A short time before dawn, trumpets called reveille, and men stumbled out of canvas to begin the task of stripping down the tents. Work parties were assigned to break apart the rampart, the added labour intended to ensure that we did not hand our enemy a defensive position that we might some day have to assault. Our section was assigned to this task.

  ‘Better to sweat now than bleed later.’ Moonface offered the mantra as he swung his pick into the turf.

  ‘Or just don’t build the bloody thing in the first place,’ Stumps countered, arching his back to ease the stiffness. ‘Since when do they attack our marching camps, anyway?’

  ‘That’s because we build these, idiot,’ Moonface spat, shaking his head. ‘Discipline, Stumps. It’s what separates us from the barbarians. Maybe you’d be happier with them?’

  ‘Maybe I would,’ he mused, breaking again from his labour. ‘But no,’ the veteran decided, gesturing dramatically at his features. ‘It would be a crime to cover this with a beard.’

  Moonface showed what he thought of that statement by throwing a sod of turf into his friend’s face.

  ‘So who are the barbarians, Moon?’ Rufus asked, his brow creased a little in irritation.

  ‘You know who I mean.’

  ‘Oh. Me?’ the son of Gaul pushed.

  ‘Of course not. You’re a Roman citizen.’

  ‘My father, then? My mother? What about my grandparents?’ Rufus pushed. ‘Two of my grandfather’s brothers died in Caesar’s Gallic wars, and it wasn’t in this uniform.’

  Moonface saw the offence he had caused to his comrade. He made the correct decision, and kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Everyone is a fucking barbarian to someone,’ Rufus concluded, turning back to his labour. ‘And the ones who don’t recognize that, and love the smell of their own shit, are the ones who are buried in it.’

  Once the rampart was destroyed and the baggage loaded, the work parties donned armour and fell into formation with the half of the army that had been providing guard. Slowly and methodically, the force marched from the campsite, leaving only overturned soil in its wake.

  The advance north continued, but after an hour of marching, the stop-starts of the column became more frequent. Even Titus, still silent and sullen, noticed with a frown.

  ‘Something’s going on up ahead,’ Chickenhead mused.

  ‘No shit,’ Stumps snorted, raising the cloth about his face to spit on the ground. Despite his jibe, he pressed his friend for more information. ‘What d’you think it is?’

  ‘Not fighting. We’d have seen the light infantry called in from the screens. Must be a problem with the track. A bridge, maybe.’

  ‘Shouldn’t the scouts and engineers have worked that out?’

  ‘No plan survives contact with an officer,’ Chickenhead surmised with a shrug. ‘Who knows?’

  We would have to wait for our answer. The column continued in fits and starts, the countryside of open fields slowly giving way to more, and thicker, woodland.

  ‘There’ll be a forest up ahead,’ Chickenhead ventured. ‘That’s the hold-up. Can’t set our battle formations in those bloody trees, so the bosses will be looking for a way around.’

  ‘And if they can’t find one?’ Moonface asked.

  ‘Then it’s hold on to your nuts and straight up the guts,’ Stumps answered, his cackle turning to a groan as the column ground to another halt.

 
; ‘I miss home.’ Moonface sighed, his wide face open with reverence as he scanned the surrounding land of sweeping woodland. ‘Rolling hills. Blue skies. It’s no wonder the barbarians – sorry, Rufus: the Germans – are what they are. Forests are cruel places. Look at it. There’s no light. Not like home.’

  ‘This is no forest. Wait until we get further north. Then you’ll see forests,’ Rufus promised the Italian.

  The column lurched ahead, and that afternoon Rufus’s words began to seem prophetic, the stands of trees growing thicker until they were unbroken and unending, a shield wall of green. The clouded skies had already cast the day into gloom, but now, despite the fact that sunset was still hours away, the column found itself marching through darkening terrain.

  ‘Going to be hard to keep in touch with the screening troops,’ Chickenhead thought aloud. Titus nodded in agreement. Since entering the forest, some warrior instinct had caused the big man to become more alert, yet he remained silent.

  Ahead came a familiar shuffle, soldiers cursing as they bumped into the men in front of them, the column shuddering to another impromptu halt, the first for our own century inside the canopy of green. Where one moment there had been the sound of an army on the move, now there was only silence. Awed by the unfamiliar, oppressive forest, the column held its collective breath.

  ‘What now?’ Stumps whispered.

  I tuned my hearing into the woodland. Leaves rustled in the light breeze. Crows called to each other from the treetops.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’ Moonface asked his comrade, equally hushed. Behind him, the youngsters Micon and Cnaeus shot fitful glances at the deep shadows set back in the trees, no doubt wondering what terrors could lurk within. This was alien terrain to the Mediterranean boys, the forest as foreign to them as the bottom of the deepest sea.