Blood Forest Page 15

  Stumps took the spoon from his friend, and the tent lapsed into silence.

  Since reaching the relative safety of the marching camp, Titus had once again retreated into himself. We still didn’t know why he had withdrawn, but his pensive attitude had taken on a hard edge of anger since the discovery of the auxiliaries’ bodies. As Moonface handed the big man a bowl of hot barley, Titus finally drifted back from his silent contemplation.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and then turned his eyes to the two youngest soldiers. ‘You did well today,’ he told Cnaeus, who was still shivering. ‘And you.’ He pointed at Micon. ‘Next time you go wandering off alone, we leave you, understand?’

  Micon’s head nodded dutifully, though his face remained the same blank mask as always. Titus seemed about to add something more, but he was stopped by an act so unexpected that, for a moment, every other man in the tent was struck dumb.

  Cnaeus began to cry.

  It was a whimper at first, as uncontrollable as his shivering. I wondered if he was even aware of it, but then words formed through the gasps and the tears. ‘I want to go home,’ he pleaded to no one in particular.

  The other men remained silent. Embarrassed. Stumps concentrated hard on stirring the pot. Moonface moved to put more sticks on the fire. Eventually, Chickenhead placed Lupus into Cnaeus’s lap; the youth seized the cat as if he were a drowning man clutching timber.

  ‘I want to go home,’ he sobbed into the kitten’s damp fur.

  From out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Titus’s considerable bulk stir. The section commander got to his feet, bending beneath the tent’s canvas. He took the few short paces towards Cnaeus, and I expected a brutal blow to fall on the boy as Titus attempted to beat the fear from him.

  Instead, he sat beside him.

  No words were spoken. The only sound came from the constant drumming of rain against the tent’s canvas, and the mewing of Lupus as he pawed at Cnaeus’s cheek.

  The boy soldier sobbed again, but the presence of the gnarled veteran beside him was like a bulwark, and gradually the youngster mastered his emotions. After what seemed like the final snivel, Titus finally deigned to speak.

  ‘We’re all scared,’ he offered simply.

  Cnaeus’s wet eyes fell on his commander with a doubtful expression.

  ‘We’re all scared,’ Titus insisted in a voice like cold iron, ‘because we’ve all got something to lose. Remember what it is, and kill any fucker who tries to take that from you. Fight like that, and you will go home.’

  Cnaeus nodded vigorously, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes. Titus, with the soft gaze of the veterans upon him, removed himself to his position in the tent’s corner and his former reverie.

  We’ve all got something to lose. Is that what had pushed the big man into his solitude? What was his to lose?

  And what was mine? I was scared – terrified – of dying, but surely all that I had to lose was long gone now, consumed in the fires of rebellion and the bloodshed that had quenched the flames. What kept me fighting? Was I nothing more than an animal, struggling because instinct told me that I must?

  No. I knew what it was, though a self-loathing part of myself fought against it as hard as any enemy.

  It was hope. It made my throat tighten to even acknowledge its existence, but, deep down, I knew that it was hope as much as fear that had carried me across the continent, pushing me onwards towards Britain: the hope that there I would find a land untouched by Rome. The hope that there I would be beyond the reach of ghosts. The hope that there I would be able to remember who I was, before the blood and the fire.

  ‘Get some sleep,’ Titus grunted at the section as he rested his scarred skull in the folds of his massive arms.

  Without a murmur, six weary soldiers and one kitten obeyed his command.

  23

  Our rest in the tent seemed to be over before it began. No sooner had I closed my eyes that I was woken by Chickenhead’s toes pushing into my ribs as the veteran pulled his tunic on. Immediately, I was alarmed that I was being woken because of my sleep terrors.

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘No.’ He stopped me, knowing what my question would be. ‘It’s our turn on the rampart.’

  As the rain beat against the hide of our tent, I dressed in my own tunic, the cold damp of the material doing nothing to energize me. The other members of the section were equally subdued, conversation non-existent as they donned armour, collected their arms and shuffled like the dead to take their stations on the low rise that enclosed the encampment.

  ‘This is shit,’ Stumps told the storm-filled night.

  With our shields and javelins planted in the ground before us, our silhouettes may have looked like statues from a distance, but up close we swayed in the strong winds as fatigue and boredom chipped away at our resolve. I looked for the moon, but it was hidden by thick cloud. It looked as if tomorrow would bring no respite from the tempest.

  ‘Felix.’ I heard my name on the wind. ‘Felix.’

  It took me a moment to locate the source of the sound. It had come from behind me, and there was just enough light in the night for me to make out the transverse crest of a centurion.

  ‘Felix,’ Pavo hissed again.

  ‘I’m here, sir,’ I answered, no doubt drawing a scornful look from Titus.

  Pavo arrived beside me. ‘Titus, I’m going to an orders group. I’m taking Felix with me as runner.’

  ‘Him? Runner?’ I could picture Titus’s thick brow creasing beneath his helmet. ‘Take one of the young lads.’

  ‘I need someone I can trust. I’m taking him.’

  ‘Well, OK, then. If you need someone you can trust,’ Titus seemed to find great amusement in the word.

  Pavo turned back towards the camp, and I followed on his shoulder. I did not think that he truly trusted me, but simply recognized me for what I was: the fellow outcast in the century. This march was Pavo’s first taste of command in the field, and though there had been no battle, the enemy nipping on our heels might well prove a fearsome opponent. I had no doubt he was wary of his future. In his own mind, he was equally sure that I was an experienced veteran, and he wanted to make use of my knowledge in a way that he couldn’t with the other soldiers of the century.

  ‘Today,’ he began without preamble. ‘What did you make of it?’

  It would not be a good idea to dispense with guile completely – Pavo was too ambitious – but it could not hurt to state the obvious.

  ‘The whole world knows that our strength is in our formations, so they hit hard and fast before we could rally. They won’t think about taking on this camp, or meeting us in the open.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He waved impatiently. ‘But is that all it is? Is that all we’ll bastard get, all the way through this campaign?’

  I broke my stride as a dog darted between tents: one of the many camp followers who had stayed with the army on the march, rather than taking the soft route of the Lippe back to the Rhine.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll stand when we reach their towns,’ I answered tactfully, giving him what he wanted to hear. ‘That’s when we’ll get battle, and the plunder.’

  Perhaps my words mollified the man, for he stayed silent until we reached the large command tent at the camp’s centre. Dozens of centurions were making their way inside, though most were the seasoned leaders of the cohorts’ First Centuries. As to why Pavo, a junior officer, had been summoned to such a gathering I was given no clue, but I thought this anomaly was probably another reason for his apprehension.

  ‘Wait here,’ he ordered me at the tent’s flap, and so I took my place in the rain amongst a dozen other miserable soldiers. The beating of the downpour against the hide of the tent kept all voices securely within its interior, and I suspect I would have remained ignorant of what passed within had it not been for the sharp eye of an old, frowning soldier – Caeonius, the camp prefect who had been party to my discovery as a blood-soaked ghoul in the sacred grove.

&n
bsp; ‘Gods!’ The officer’s smile spread genuinely beneath his bulbous nose. ‘You must be the only one in the army who’s looking better than the last time I saw him.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I managed, despite my discomfort at the attention. ‘I’m surprised you recognize me.’

  ‘That was a sight I’ll not forget until I’m cold in my grave. What are you doing here? Do you remember anything now?’

  I regretted that I did not, and then explained that I had been sent to a century as a battle casualty replacement, and how I had accompanied Pavo to the tent as his runner.

  ‘Well, you can’t bloody run if you’re all rust, can you? Get inside.’ He must have sensed my hesitation. ‘Just stand at the back and keep quiet. Don’t worry about it. Come on.’

  What choice did I have? He was one of the highest-ranking individuals in the army, and so I followed the squat man inside, pressing myself against the canvas and hoping that my entrance would go unnoticed in the shadows.

  The tent was packed with officers belonging to all of the army’s castes: the heavy mob of the Roman legions; auxiliary light infantry; cavalry, both Roman and provincial; engineers; artillery. Their backs to me, steam rising from beneath their armour, they appeared like some army of the dead.

  Despite the crowd, Pavo’s height let me catch sight of him. He was standing close to the front, and I wondered what could have elevated him to the status he so strongly desired.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Please be seated.’ Caeonius’s voice sounded from the front and the officers took their places on wooden benches – some aspects of Roman civilization could not be overlooked in the field, no matter the circumstances. Thankfully, there were not enough of these seats to go around, and I was not left to stand conspicuously alone. Then, my view blocked slightly by the chain-mailed shoulders of a cavalryman, I saw Governor Varus take centre stage.

  It was no secret that he was a politician rather than a warrior, but even so I marvelled at the effect that only two days in the field had taken on the man. Varus’s eyes were dark-rimmed and his skin had the same waxen sheen as the tent.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I have some grave news.’

  Instantly, the tent seemed emptied of air as men held their breath, military minds churning over possible disasters and responses. I turned them over myself. Yes, the column had come under attack. Yes, the weather was terrible. But these were not incidents that should be insurmountable to an army in the field. What was the grave news? Why did Varus look so ghastly?

  And then he told us.

  ‘Arminius is dead.’

  24

  For a moment, discipline slipped, the gathering erupting into hurried conversation, men wondering aloud what could have befallen the German prince, and what effect that would have on the campaign.

  I heard none of it.

  I felt as if my stomach had dropped past my knees. Knees that were shaking in grief.

  Arminius was an enigma: the barbarian-born noble who was an accomplished Roman officer and an embodiment of the Empire. He was that rare kind of man who seemed unshackled by mortal worries, the energy of a dozen legions contained within his skin. He was witty, handsome and kind.

  And somehow, I was sure that he was my friend.

  And I knew – I knew – how ridiculous it was for me to think of a noble-born that way, but hadn’t Berengar, the prince’s shadow, said as much himself?

  But what did it matter? He was dead.

  ‘How?’ several voices began to ask.

  It was Caeonius who stepped up to answer. Like the legions he had come to embody, his manner of address was direct and brutally efficient.

  ‘Here are the facts as we know them. Arminius was supposed to arrive with his warriors today and join the column. He didn’t. Instead, a small group of riders came in. They talked to his scouts, and they immediately rode away together, and at speed—’

  ‘Why?’ a legate, commander of the Nineteenth Legion, interrupted.

  ‘All we know is that some auxiliary troops understood part of the exchange between the riders and the guides. They told them that Arminius and his men had been attacked, and that the prince was feared dead.’

  Most of the tent held its silence, but the legate was an inquisitive and suspicious man. ‘So we don’t know that he’s dead?’

  ‘We don’t. At first light, we’ll send out cavalry detachments. Their orders are to find Arminius, and to bring his warriors here to join us.’

  ‘And if he is dead? Will they hold by their word to Rome?’ The legate, a politician like Varus, sounded doubtful. Caeonius’s lack of reply confirmed that he was of the same mind.

  Now, Varus seemed to remember his position. The governor struggled to straighten his shoulders and present an authoritative figure, but still he sagged with grief. Perhaps to steady himself, he placed a friendly hand on Caeonius’s shoulder. ‘I would ask that all commanders now present their losses, and unit strength,’ he ordered with the gravity required in such dealings.

  One by one, officers stood and reported on their butcher’s bill. The legates of the three legions were the first to present; their casualties were light, and mostly walking wounded.

  ‘Slingshot has accounted for most of our injured,’ the legate of the Nineteenth observed. ‘We tried raising shields at first, but they saw that meant we couldn’t return our javelins, and they moved in with spearmen. We lost a few men that way, so now my centurions are ordering the shields kept down. Better the slingshot than the spears. Besides’ – he smiled proudly – ‘it’s not as if my men are ever without black eyes.’

  The losses amongst the auxiliary troops had been higher, but a few units accounted for the majority of the number. One had been reduced to half of its four hundred effectives. These had been the lead troops of the army’s flank screens, and I thought of the men we had found, butchered and positioned like trophies, and wondered where they came from. Regardless, they had died far from home.

  ‘I’ve heard stories from the vanguard.’ Varus swallowed, addressing the hollow-eyed auxiliary officer. ‘What happened to your men?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’ His tone was flat. Almost lifeless. ‘They just vanished.’

  The direst news came from the commander of the army’s baggage train, a colourful veteran whose left arm had been lost on campaign many years ago.

  ‘It’s the fucking artillery pieces, sir, ’scuse my fucking language, sir. It was bad enough goin’ with it how it was, but now that the fucking rain – ’scuse my language, sir – has started, we might as well be tryin’ to pull a bull from out a virgin’s cunt – ’scuse my language, sir.’

  ‘Thank you for your report, centurion.’ Varus smiled politely, but his eyes betrayed his aversion to barrack-room language.

  ‘It’s not just the mud, sir,’ the man added. ‘Track’s narrow, and we’re strung out across half of fucking Germany – ’scuse my language, sir. If they break through in even one place, burn a few carts, then we’ll be blocked up like my arse after the feast of Saturnalia – ’scuse my language, sir.’

  After what had been an inauspicious beginning to the orders group, the eccentric centurion’s language – or rather the governor’s evident discomfort with it – helped to clear the air in the tent. Invested in Arminius as I was myself, it had become almost natural to assume that all the others were of the same mind, but now, as the assembled officers began to discuss strategy for the army’s next move, it became evident that this was not the case.

  The legate of the Seventeenth Legion got to his feet. He was a tall, hard-looking man, with a hooded brow and sharp nose that gave his face the look of a hawk. He was also my own legion’s commander, though he would know as little of me as did any other officer present, save Caeonius and Pavo, who knew only what I had led them to believe.

  ‘Governor Varus,’ the man began, with the diplomacy becoming of a member of Rome’s senatorial class. ‘Prince Arminius is an excellent warrior, and a loyal friend. I hope that he is
well, and that he can join us on the battlefield soon, to share in our glory.

  ‘However, should the Cherusci, for any reason, fail to arrive, then we should not consider this a blow. True, Arminius may well bring eight thousand warriors with him, but we are seventeen thousand, and an elite. It is not for lack of numbers that the enemy has harassed us today, but because we have been hampered by terrain. I would urge, governor, that we make haste to clear these forests, so that we may persecute the enemy in open battle.’

  There was a murmur of agreement about the tent. The feeling was that the column had received a bloody nose that day, nothing more. No man was in any doubt that when the army cleared into favourable terrain – and could march in battle formation – the Germans would be forced to flee, or die. Even Varus himself was nodding at the sentiment. If not for his friendship with Arminius, then perhaps he would have agreed to break camp at daybreak and press northwards, but the bonds between governor and prince ran deep.

  ‘The rains will not break tomorrow, and so we shall remain in this camp. Arminius, should he live, shall have one day to join us. Consider, gentlemen, that his scouts offer us the most efficient route from out of this torrid forest.’

  Mention of the scouts triggered an alarm in my mind. I dismissed it as a natural concern that Berengar and his men might fall foul of their fellow Germans before they could reach their prince and kinsmen.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ the legate assented. ‘May I suggest that we use tomorrow as an opportunity to reconnoitre routes, should we have to scout our own way north? The engineers also tell me that the rain and the winds will have brought down obstructions on to the tracks. We can take this time to clear them, in preparation for our advance.’

  ‘Yes, very good. Your legion can see to it? It will be hot work, I imagine.’

  ‘My men are not afraid of hard work, or German spears, governor,’ the legate assured him, before gesturing towards the seated men behind him. ‘Centurion Pavo has volunteered to lead the work party.’

  I could almost see Pavo’s shoulders snap back at the mention of his name. Whether this was out of pride, or surprise, I could not tell.