Siege Page 13

  I watched the brown waters jog by, thinking of how the river’s banks would froth and rage when winter set in. Even now the river provided us with a barricade that matched a cohort of soldiers for deterrence, and in reality my section was here for us to use our eyes, rather than our swords.

  My men were spread out on the wall and I was alone. The solitude was almost welcome, as I needed time to think. I needed time to turn words over in my mind, and to try and find the ones that would do justice to the fallen of the forest if I took my turn to speak, though I was not sure if I would even be invited to open my mouth; Titus and Stumps had been long-time brothers of the veterans who fell, and Micon had been thick as thieves with young Cnaeus.

  And yet, still, I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell them how Chickenhead had helped me in the darkest nights. How Rufus had shown me that there was something bigger than ourselves. I had little good to say about the xenophobe Moonface, that was true, but he was a comrade none the less. An ignorant bastard of a comrade, but so perverted is the nature of camaraderie that I would have died for him.

  It had been a long time since I had stood in front of a formation of men and spoken words of thanks for the life and the sacrifice of friends and comrades. At times my audience had been hundreds. At others, a handful of desperate renegades. Never was it easy.

  And then I thought about the comrades whose only remembrance had been inside my head. There was no eloquence in those memories, only pain and violence, regret and guilt. Who had spoken for my oldest friend, Marcus? Who had buried him?

  I thought again of ghosts. I had no doubt that Marcus’s spirit, restless and vengeful, had slipped inside my own mind.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered to the fields beyond the wall and river.

  Those abandoned pastures were empty save for a knot of horsemen in the distance – scouts who would warn the Germans, should the garrison take the desperate path of escape through the waters. The besieging forces, reduced as they were, straddled the roads that led inwards towards the fort. These encampments were set a mile back from the fort, the distance seeming to confirm that the German prince was happy to watch and wait.

  Of course, I doubted that Arminius himself had remained. Two-thirds of the army had left – whether to follow Arminius or to desert him I could only guess – and Arminius would surely be at the head of this force if it still existed, looking for a place to strike Rome and to shore up his tribal alliances by regaining the momentum he had won in the forest.

  The sound of hobnails on wood gave away the approach of the relieving section. I gave a short handover report to their section commander, and then gathered my men.

  ‘You don’t have to come to this,’ I told them as we stripped arms and armour in the barrack block; Brando had been inquisitive as to our plans for the service.

  ‘But can we?’ he asked.

  Folcher also looked at me for permission. The Batavians had lost their own comrades and soldiers in the forest. I had seen one of them killed with my own eyes at the hands of our German captors.

  ‘Of course,’ I told them.

  The three newcomers to the section remained in the block, happy to escape the wind that was racing between the fort’s buildings.

  ‘How long until winter sets in?’ I asked the Batavians.

  ‘Real winter?’ Brando shrugged. ‘Two months. It will be like this a lot now, though. Maybe some sun in six months.’

  ‘Fuck this life,’ Stumps cursed.

  ‘You’ve been in Germany before for winter?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yeah, but in a stone fort on the Rhine, and with nice big fires.’

  We arrived at Drusus’s altar. I had expected to find Titus waiting, but the presence beside him surprised me: Metella, former proprietor of the section’s favourite inn at Minden, and now Titus’s business partner in black-market trading.

  ‘Stumps, you arse.’ She smiled fondly at her old friend. ‘I heard you pissed yourself.’

  ‘You know there’s an army outside waiting to kill us?’ He smirked. ‘I would have thought there were more interesting things to talk about.’

  ‘Nah. I hope you’ve changed your loincloth since then.’

  ‘I don’t wear one. They haven’t built one that’s up to carrying my beast.’

  ‘So that’s why the Syrians have been walking around wide-legged?’

  Stumps opened his mouth for another round of banter, but Titus beat him to it.

  ‘Come on, we came here to do something.’ All sets of eyes fell on the man who had been our leader in the forest. I realized then that the Batavians were unknown to him, and made the introductions.

  ‘Look,’ Titus began, a little awkwardly, ‘I’m not a priest or an officer, but I don’t think we need one to do a service for our mates. Metella’s brought the wine, so we were thinking we’d pour some for the lads who aren’t here. Then we can say something about them, and then we drink the rest.’

  I’d never seen Titus look so uncomfortable; one of his big paws was rubbing at the skin behind his neck as Metella brought forth a trio of wineskins.

  ‘It’s the best stuff here, no fucking around,’ she boomed. ‘A worthy offering to the boys.’

  Titus took the skins from her hands, holding on to one himself and passing the others to Stumps and Folcher. Together, they poured the red liquid into the dirt.

  The ripe smell of it lifted my nostrils. The sight of it lifted my stomach, because it brought back a memory. A bad one: I pictured the old man of the Pannonian village, and how he had trembled on his knees before me. How his grey hair had felt in my hand as I pulled back his head and sawed open his throat. How his blood had pattered on to the dirt as his family screamed. And then, how they had followed their beloved into the afterlife.

  ‘Felix?’ Brando was looking at me, his thick brow knotted in concern.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I lied.

  As the wine continued to pour into the ground, the men spoke the names of comrades lost to the forest. Some I knew. Most I did not. Titus and Stumps had served in the legion for years, whilst Folcher’s entire cohort had been massacred – there were a lot of names to recite.

  Once the names had been spoken, it was time for intimacy. A time to reflect in detail on those who had been closest to us.

  Folcher went first. To give due honour to his comrades he spoke in his native tongue, the words coming with pride and fire. I heard the name Ekkebert amongst the German, before Folcher turned to Latin to conclude his passionate tribute.

  ‘They died for Rome,’ he told us. ‘They died for a dream. Because they make a sacrifice, now others also can dream.’

  Brando bowed his head at the patriotic words. So too, I was surprised to see, did Metella – the Empire’s most devout followers were often found in its most unlikely places.

  ‘He has spoken for us both,’ Brando answered Titus’s invitation to speak, giving his comrade a proud pat on the shoulder.

  ‘All right then,’ Titus grunted, stepping forth to the front of the small assembly himself. ‘Most of you knew Rufus,’ he began. ‘Some of you know that he saved my life years ago, not that he’d ever talk about it. He wasn’t like that. Not in any way. They offered him a century, you know? But he turned it down. He just wanted to get along, and be with his family.

  ‘Rufus taught me a lot about family,’ the big man continued. ‘The way he was with his kids, he brought that with him into the ranks. It’s not always about having the loudest voice or the hardest punch. Sometimes you have to put yourself in your kid’s sandals, and see things how they look at it. Being a soldier isn’t an easy job, after all. Rufus just made it look like it was.’

  Titus opened his mouth to speak again, seeming to prepare himself for a revelation or story, but then his shoulders sank down, and he let out a breath. ‘I’ll miss him,’ he finished.

  ‘We all will,’ Stumps confirmed.

  Silence fell over our assembly. In the distance were the playful cries of children, the sound of hammer
ing and the barked orders of an angry officer.

  Eventually Titus looked up from the dirt, and to Stumps. ‘You want to talk about Chicken and Moon?’

  ‘Just Chicken,’ Stumps answered quickly. ‘We don’t know if Moon’s dead.’

  Titus gave his comrade a patient smile. ‘You’re right,’ he allowed, though I could see by his slumped shoulders that he thought otherwise.

  Stumps walked to the front of our group. I could see the nerves in each step, his gait tight.

  After a moment to compose himself, he opened his mouth to begin. ‘Chickenhead was my—’

  He didn’t get any further than that, a racking sob coming from his soul to utterly consume him. Stumps tried to break through the waves, but his grief was upon him now, and within a moment he was sobbing. It was Metella who came forward first, placing a motherly arm about his shoulders. He pushed his head into the woman’s embrace, and wept.

  I saw Brando turn to Titus. The Batavian’s look asked for permission to speak. Titus gave it with a nod.

  ‘Stumps is my comrade,’ Brando announced, his voice low and firm. ‘If he were to grieve like this when I die, it would be the greatest honour.’

  The flow of tears slowed at the words, and Stumps looked up; his face was red, his nose thick with bubbling snot. The memory of war and its pain sometimes reduced killers to infants.

  ‘Micon.’ Titus’s voice startled the boy. ‘Would you like to speak for Cnaeus?’

  The young soldier gave a nervous nod. I could see Stumps fight to control himself and give due respect to the words and speaker. I didn’t know what I expected from Micon, but the youngster stunned all with his oratory and adoration.

  ‘Cnaeus was a hero,’ he recited from well-rehearsed memory. ‘He was a born soldier. When everyone else ran on the bridge, Cnaeus turned and faced the enemy. Cnaeus and Felix drove them back, and saved our lives. In the forest, Cnaeus told me it would be all right. He told me I would live. He told me that he would die for me, and no matter what, he would make sure I made it home. Cnaeus was a hero.’

  There was not a solitary tear; Micon’s usual blank mask was infused with pride. I imagined then the conversations that the two young soldiers must have had in the forest: Cnaeus, terrified as he was himself, promising to see his friend through it. I let out a sigh as I pictured the youngster dying at my feet, his hands clutching desperately at the wound in his throat, eyes screaming for help as he recognized that his wound was mortal.

  A lump of ice stuck in my throat.

  ‘You spoke well, lad.’ Titus smiled, embracing Micon as if he were his son. Metella followed suit, and soon, Micon had been pulled tight by every member of the assembly.

  ‘What now?’ Stumps asked, wiping away snot with the back his hand.

  Titus was ready with his answer. ‘Let’s get drunk.’

  We did.

  We drank. We laughed. We remembered. Eventually, however, the stories had to come to an end. There was time for a few snatched hours of sleep, before sentry duty in the dead of night.

  All was dark and silent beyond the wall. The cold wind brushed against my skin, flushed from wine, and I welcomed it. I pictured how I would fall gratefully into my bed once our watch was over, and sleep until I was forcefully pulled out of it. Then, as the night lifted and dawn came to the fort, I panicked for a moment that I had committed the greatest sin in the legions, and fallen asleep at my post, for surely what I saw in front of me was a dream?

  Because the fields were empty.

  The enemy was gone.

  27

  It was almost three days before we got our first indication of what had happened to the enemy who had vanished from sight; Centurion H called for his optio and his section commanders to join him in his quarters, a series of rooms situated on the end of the barrack block. One acted as the centurion’s office, and it was here that he gave his briefing.

  ‘Anyone notice that Centurion Malchus has been missing?’ H asked, and men shook their heads. The cohort commander could be counted on to be found where fighting was thickest, but during the monotonous days of siege he was often out of sight.

  ‘He’s been over the wall since the goat-fuckers pulled out,’ H explained. ‘He went to find out where they’ve gone.’

  Murmured words of admiration tumbled out from the assembled men, veterans all.

  ‘I know.’ H smiled. ‘He’s a tough fucking bastard. The good news is that we couldn’t ask for a better cohort commander. The bad news is that the hairy bastards haven’t gone home. They’ve just moved.’

  Shoulders slumped a little at this news. The centurion gestured that we join him at a sketch map stretched out on his desk.

  ‘Here’re the fortresses on the upper Rhine’ – he pointed out with the vine cane that was a symbol of the centurion’s authority – ‘where the river’s crossing points are.

  ‘We’re here.’ H pointed out to a lonely point within hostile borders. ‘And what the clever bastard Arminius has figured out is that he doesn’t need to sit on top of the fort to contain us.’

  ‘So where are his men?’ an old sweat asked.

  ‘Here.’ H pointed to a position between the fort and the Rhine. ‘Malchus found them sitting on the road that leads to the Rhine, about twenty miles away. It’s a few thousand men, so more than enough to outnumber us and keep us bottled up here. It’s also far enough from the crossing that they’re not antagonizing anyone into coming over the river and attacking.’

  ‘Where’s Arminius?’ I asked. ‘Where’s the rest of his army?’

  ‘No sign of them.’

  The century’s second in command, H’s optio, spoke up. ‘If Arminius is gone, and there’re just a few thousand of them between us and the Rhine, we need to get word to the lower Rhine legions. They can cross and smash them out of the way.’

  H nodded. ‘Malchus had two men with him on his recce. He’s sent them to the Rhine. If they get through, they’re to ask that the legions clear the road from the bridge to here.’

  ‘They won’t do it if they don’t know where the rest of Arminius’s army is,’ a voice grumbled. It belonged to a man named Albus, a veteran I could sense was interested in his own survival above all else. ‘It looks like a trap, doesn’t it?’ he pressed.

  H blew air from between his lips. ‘Prepare for a long winter,’ he answered. ‘If they come, they come, but let’s rely on ourselves to get out of this.’ He smiled, trying to spin the situation to the best of his cheerful ability. ‘Look, we’ve got stores, we’ve got shelter, and – for now at least – we’re not facing attack.’

  ‘How long will our supplies last, boss?’ the optio asked.

  ‘We were good for two months. I expect the prefect will be announcing rationing soon, though.’

  ‘Will the archers be on reduced rations?’ Albus grumbled.

  ‘Of course they will. The civilians too.’

  ‘Don’t need the archers if there’re no attacks,’ the man countered sourly. ‘That would be a few hundred less mouths to feed.’

  ‘You hear what they did last night?’ A veteran grinned. ‘Fourth Century boys found three of them outside the building the civvies use for washing. They’d cut a bit of wood out of the wall for a peep, and were having a good tug when the watch found them.’

  Someone laughed. ‘Surprised they didn’t join in if they were Fourth Century. Fucking animals.’

  ‘Well, makes a change for the Syrians anyway,’ the veteran concluded his story. ‘Didn’t know they were interested in women as well as boys.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter who they fuck.’ H shook his head. ‘We’d be getting our bones picked clean if it wasn’t for them. Now listen. On the subject of corpses, I’ve got some great news for you.’

  I heard myself groan with the other men. Now that the imminent threat of German attack was gone, I knew what that great news would be.

  ‘We’ve got to clean out the ditch.’

  It had been over a week since the first of the Germans
had died in the ditch, and the smell of decay hit us before the eastern gate had even been opened. When the wood did creak back, a century in full battle dress marched out to form a screen a hundred yards away from the fort. Dressed simply in tunics, the men of our own century now filed out beneath the gatehouse. Two dozen archers came with us, the Syrians looking to salvage what arrows they could.

  ‘Don’t be shy, lads,’ H smiled, his words muffled by the neckerchief tied over his face. ‘Grab a German friend, and carry them to their trenches. Once they’re all in you can have the rest of the day to yourselves. You’re in your own time, now.’

  ‘Why can’t we just bury them in the ditch?’ Statius grumbled.

  ‘Because it wouldn’t be a ditch then, would it, you dickhead?’ Stumps snapped.

  ‘Lu-lu-look at this one.’ Balbus pointed; an arrow had gone through an eye and clean out the back of the tribesman’s skull. Like the other corpses around him, the German’s skin was sagging and patterned with decomposition.

  ‘I feel desensitized to this smell,’ Stumps grunted as he lifted the dead arms of a stick-thin German boy. ‘Thank you, Dog. I didn’t realize what a service your arse-breath was doing for the legions.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Dog smiled, Stumps’s insults washing over him.

  It was unpleasant work: rancid gas escaped from dead lungs; rotten limbs tore from their sockets; insects and larvae crawled and wriggled inside wounds and eye sockets emptied by crows.

  The same jokes crept up, those spoken on battlefields the world over: ‘he’s ’armless’, ‘he’s legless’, ‘he got the point’, ‘he lost his head’. The humour was cruel, dark and necessary. As the graft wore on, some soldiers lost their breakfast, but none seemed to lose their mind.

  One German tried to change that.

  Statius squealed like a pig and jumped back from the corpse he had been reaching for. ‘Fuck! He fucking moved!’

  ‘You’re a soft cunt.’ Stumps smirked. ‘It’s just air leaving him. You never seen a body before—Fuck me, he moved!’