Blood Forest Page 18

‘Not the time for trophy collecting!’ Stumps shouted, holding a spearman at bay with feinted thrusts of his javelin.

  ‘You mind your own fight,’ Titus growled, ramming his fist into the side of the spearman’s head. The blow was enough to drop the German like a stone, and Titus followed through by stamping on the man’s skull; an eye popped free of its socket.

  ‘Close up!’ he roared, gripping men by their equipment and pulling the formation tighter.

  Step by step, foot by foot, the battered century crossed the forest floor, the knot of shields steadily shrinking as German spears found exposed Roman flesh.

  ‘Just let us stand!’ Moonface screamed aloud. His wide face was painted in blood, and flushed with battle-madness. ‘Let us die standing!’

  ‘I’m not dying here, you mad bastard,’ Stumps chided him, hitting his friend across the back of the helmet. ‘And neither are you!’

  His words held more certainty, his eyes more hope, than they had any right to. I followed his gaze to open ground.

  Open fucking ground.

  We were only fifty paces from the forest’s edge, but now, pushed on by our near escape, the Germans pressed home their assault, making us pay for every bloody yard. More men dropped in sight of safety than during the entire retreat, the rearguard wiped out as the formation finally buckled and became a circle of frightened men and overlapping shields. In such a formation, we stepped out of the darkness of the forest and into the open ground, the damp field as welcoming as the forum of Rome.

  A few spearmen followed us from the trees to hurl final missiles and insults, but the charge of a patrolling cavalry unit was enough to send them scurrying for cover.

  A young decurion, the officer commanding the cavalry squadron, pulled his mount to a halt beside the panting and bleeding men of Pavo’s command.

  ‘You’re the Second Century, Second Cohort,’ he announced.

  Pavo emerged from the ranks. The horsehair crest of his helmet had been shorn almost in two by a German sword. His forearms were thick with blood from a dozen spear-nicks. He had not shied from the fighting and, with his proud chin and bright eyes, he made for a heroic figure. ‘How do you know that?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘You’re the only ones still out there.’

  ‘The other work parties came back?’

  ‘Some of them did,’ the cavalry officer answered ominously, twisting in the saddle to peer at the forest, the trees as much of a barricade as any fort’s stone walls. ‘Someone doesn’t want us to leave this place,’ he concluded with a soldier’s grim resignation.

  Pavo wasted no time, and marched – limped – the century back towards the camp. Through the rain, I took in the men about me. The section had come through the action alive, but not unscathed: Stumps’s shoulder wound had reopened, the stitches pulled free as he’d protected others with his shield; a deep gash ran across Titus’s forearm, a glimmer of white bone appearing within; Rufus’s shoulder was slumped from a slingshot’s strike; Moonface pressed delicately on ribs that were deeply bruised, if not cracked; young Micon’s helmet was dented and the eternally blank stare of his face was painted red by a cut across his forehead.

  I took in these men, and in that moment I knew that I could not abandon them. Not while they were in this forest, besieged by enemies and by the storm. They had kept me alive today, and I owed it to them to return that service. A voice in my head railed against making such a promise, but I told myself that the oath was only to see the section clear of the forest. From there, I would go my own way, north to Britain, and a life free of Rome. Free of the legions. Free of war.

  But for now, during the day’s struggle and slaughter, something within me had changed. Since my discovery in the grove I had fought against the ties of comradeship, but I could no longer resist those bonds, even if they were conditional, and it would be reasonable to assume that my about-turn had been prompted solely by the trials of combat. Reasonable, but wrong.

  Because my decision was born of guilt.

  Guilt that my actions had doomed these men, as they had others before them. Guilt that I could not resurrect ghosts. Guilt because, despite the adrenaline that seeped through my veins, despite the horror that we had endured in the forest, and despite the relief of escaping to the marching camp, the decurion’s words had left me reeling. Someone doesn’t want us to leave this place.

  With blinding clarity, I knew who.

  27

  ‘The chieftain Segestes is behind all of this,’ I told Pavo. ‘Arminius eloped with his daughter, and he wants him dead.’

  We were in the centurion’s tent, Pavo having begrudgingly agreed to hear my petition. He was scrubbing at his helmet, working away blood that the rain had failed to wash clean.

  ‘He needs the army held up here because he knows Varus will come to Arminius’s rescue,’ I continued. ‘He’ll use the other tribes to keep us pinned down until he unites his own, and then we’ll be allowed to march on.’

  Pavo didn’t break from his scrubbing, dismissing my theory with icy sarcasm. ‘So the chief breaks an oath to Rome, attacks an army twice the size of his tribe, and all because he doesn’t like his son-in-law? It makes no sense,’ he snorted, casting an angry eye over the helmet’s ruined crest.

  ‘It’s a family feud, sir. Sense doesn’t come into it.’

  I could see that my argument was falling on deaf ears. I needed to try another tack. A dangerous tack.

  ‘The legate,’ I said. Pavo’s eyes snapped to me at the mention of the man. ‘Does it make sense that he’d send a century into the forest with no support? No, because he did it out of passion. He did it for family.’

  Slowly, Pavo placed the helmet on the ground, his dangerous eyes never leaving mine as he stood.

  ‘You have no fucking idea,’ he warned, but I needed him to take my conclusion to the army’s commanders, and so I stepped over the precipice.

  ‘I know you were fucking one of his women.’

  I braced myself for the blow. I was expecting it would come to the stomach. Perhaps a knee into my face as I doubled over.

  None came.

  He laughed.

  The laugh was bitter, true to the man, but there was more now, in his eyes, as if he had seen some great irony.

  ‘You want to talk about secrets? You? The stranger that a prince ordered me to take into my century? The man who knows more about the Germans’ traps than they do? The soldier who claims to be a replacement, but is more of a veteran than any other in my unit?’

  He laughed again. I held my silence. Eventually, Pavo spat on the dirt of his tent’s floor.

  ‘Forget it. I’m not asking, because something in my head tells me that could be dangerous. But I will tell you this, whoever you are. You’re not as clever as you think.’

  He looked away from me, and I sensed he was pushing down a tide of bitter reproach.

  ‘You know, all of my life, whenever I’ve achieved something, people have whispered, Who’s he been fucking? It never occurs to them – it hasn’t occurred to you – that maybe the better question to ask is: Who hasn’t he been fucking?’

  ‘The legate,’ I answered quietly.

  He spat again, this time with violence. ‘He gave me a century and, idiot that I was, I thought I’d got it because I was a good soldier. Because he knew that I was going on to great things. How the fuck did I know that he wanted that in return? He couldn’t take the command back from me unless I fucked up – and I’m too good to fuck up – but he’s been looking for a way to get rid of me ever since. I guarantee you that today will not be the last day we get left out to dry because of it.’

  The centurion’s anger faded, replaced by bitter reproach. A reproach to himself.

  ‘Those men today, they died because of me. I’ve always known that soldiers have to bleed to get me where I want to go, but these men didn’t die for my ambition, but because of my fucking stupidity.’

  This was no act. The centurion’s scowl, a mask worn so well, had slipp
ed. Here was a young man, heaped with guilt. Little wonder he had been so desperate to wipe the blood from his armour. I dared not tell him that the conscience was not so easily made clean. Instead, I offered the first solution to the problem.

  ‘Give up the rank,’ I told him. ‘Get a transfer to another cohort.’

  He shook his head. Clearly, he’d gone around in circles with the same question. ‘It’s not about the rank. I turned him down. I know what he is. He wants me dead, no matter where I go, and others will die with me.’

  ‘It’s better that one dies than many,’ I offered finally.

  His eyes became like fire. ‘Suicide? I won’t go out like that, you cunt. I’m a fucking soldier, and I’ll die like a soldier.’

  I shook my head. The centurion had mistaken my meaning. I offered him the second solution to the problem.

  ‘Kill the legate.’

  Pavo and I talked at length after that, some of it heated, some of it with the cold detachment of butchers. By the time a plan had been decided upon, I felt as if part of the old me had returned.

  ‘You’re too good at this,’ Pavo noted warily. ‘What’s in it for you?’

  ‘I keep breathing.’

  ‘There must be something more.’

  I considered it.

  ‘Titus. Stop giving his section the most dangerous jobs.’

  ‘You think I give him those details because I want him dead?’ He laughed, his white smile brilliant. ‘I hate him, I admit. I think he’s a bully and a thug, but he’s good. I know he’s my best chance of keeping the men alive. That’s why he gets those jobs.’

  ‘It’s not the dice?’

  ‘If every soldier in debt tried to kill their way out of it, the army would be down to ten men.’

  His reasoning made sense. His eyes told me it was truth. I decided to press my advantage.

  ‘Arminius. You are – were – in debt to him, too?’ I asked, pained as I remembered my friend’s fall.

  ‘I suppose there’s no harm in telling you after what we’ve talked about. Yes, I owed him, but that was paid by taking you into the century.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Why would I ask? It was a win for me.’

  Denied my answer, I moved to the tent flap.

  ‘You’re going to want something from me, too.’ Pavo’s words stopped me at the exit. ‘You help me with this, and you have it.’

  I made no reply as I ducked into the rains.

  Being heavily mauled that day bought the century no sympathy from the army, and later that evening, it was our turn to stand watch on the camp’s ramparts.

  ‘I was just startin’ to warm up again,’ Stumps grumbled. The men had taken the few hours’ respite to fill their bellies with hot food. Suffering from the nauseating effects of adrenaline overload, Cnaeus had been unable to keep down a mouthful; both he and Micon were shaking violently from the cold.

  ‘Jump around,’ Chickenhead told them. ‘Get the blood moving.’

  The boys made pathetic attempts to comply, the veterans smiling at the effort.

  ‘Good thing you’re soldiers,’ Stumps told them with some warmth. ‘You’d never make it as acrobats.’

  Then the jumping figures produced an unexpected surprise: something was shaken out from beneath Micon’s armour.

  It was an ear.

  Stumps cackled with laughter, bending down to pick up the ragged piece of flesh. He spoke into it. ‘Hello. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, mate. The barber took a bit too much off the sides.’

  The veterans laughed; only Titus was unmoved by the dark humour. He had a sword in his hands, turning it over as if inspecting every detail. His own short sword was comfortable in its scabbard, and I remembered that Titus had collected one from the enemy dead. I had no idea why. I could only guess that, like many soldiers, he was partial to trophy hunting.

  I watched the big man, taking in the bandaged forearm and the scowling face. Only this morning, I had wanted him dead, but my rage had long since faded, quenched by an afternoon of vicious bloodshed. Now, I admired the man who had held his section together, fearless as he herded them to safety. Pavo was right; Titus was a bully and a thug, but he was good.

  ‘You hungry?’ Stumps asked of Micon, pushing the ear towards the boy’s mouth.

  He laughed at the youngster’s uncomfortable squirming.

  ‘Hey, Moony.’ Stumps poked his friend. ‘What would you rather lose? Your eyes, ears or nose?’

  ‘My nose, obviously,’ Moonface replied without hesitation. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to smell your arse stinking out the tent.’

  ‘It’s a privilege to enjoy my aroma. How about you, Chicken?’

  ‘My ears, so I wouldn’t have to listen to you and your stupid fucking questions.’

  ‘And I’ll lose my eyes, too,’ Moonface added. ‘So I don’t have to look at your face. It’s like a trodden-on bunch of grapes.’

  ‘Gods, you lot are in great spirits tonight, aren’t you? Anyone would think you didn’t enjoy serving in the glorious Seventeenth Legion. You’ve got wind, rain and mud. What else could an infantryman want?’

  ‘Shut up, Stumps,’ Rufus ordered, his eyes on the treeline. ‘Something’s coming out of the forest.’

  Silence fell. Knuckles went white as men unconsciously tightened their grips on javelins. Eyes strained to see through the sheets of rain that fell in an unending cascade.

  ‘It’s a horse,’ Rufus announced.

  It was a riderless horse, and it was the first of a dozen that appeared over the next hour. Each time, a patrolling cavalry squadron would corral the beast and lead it back to camp. One such sortie brought them close to our position, and we noted the bright red gash on the horse’s hindquarters.

  Stumps snorted. ‘Well, that’s the governor’s dinner sorted.’

  ‘What happened to the riders?’ Micon asked. The dull-witted soldier received only frowns as answers.

  But perhaps his question was not as straightforward as it seemed for, shortly after, Rufus again noticed movement in the distance, and this time it was no horse.

  It was men.

  They were soldiers, the red of their tunics betraying them through the rain. It was harder to make out the dark-cloaked Germans behind them, until they pushed their prisoners onto their knees, and shouted their guttural language into the storm.

  ‘Gods, no …’ Chickenhead prayed.

  From our left, a cavalry detachment had spotted the enemy and were pounding towards them, desperate to rescue the hostages.

  I knew that they would not make it.

  German blades were raised to the sky, then chopped savagely down into the necks of the captives; the severed heads were held aloft with more native cries of defiance.

  The cavalry spurred closer. The Germans ran. They were still short of the forest when the cavalry pulled up, and rode away.

  ‘Slingers,’ Chickenhead guessed.

  ‘They took the heads,’ Moonface noted, shaken.

  I looked at Titus.

  Throughout the execution, he hadn’t raised his eyes from the captured sword.

  I spooned hot barley into my mouth, aware that my respite would be short. Despite knowing what lay ahead, I felt calm. As calm as I had been in a long time. I recognized that the coming mission with Pavo had given me a singular focus that was both terrifying and reassuring. What I was planning was dangerous, and yet, if successful, perhaps I and what was left of the century would come through this campaign alive. Maybe their spared lives would quiet the screams of the others.

  Maybe.

  Titus and Rufus got to their feet, the pair fully armed and armoured.

  ‘We’re going to check on his family,’ Titus announced, though why he needed to accompany his friend, I had no idea.

  Across the tent, Cnaeus and Micon were still shaking uncontrollably; the watch on the rampart had used up the final reserves of their strength.

  ‘They’re coming down with exposure,’ Chickenhe
ad assessed. The veteran held Lupus to his chest, the reunion causing a tear to run down the gnarled skin of his ugly face. After the events of that day, no man made any comment or fun of him.

  ‘Come on, lads,’ Stumps offered to the youngsters, moving to help them. ‘Get those wet clothes off.’

  With Moonface’s assistance, the veterans stripped the shivering soldiers. Their pale skin was almost blue. Placing the driest cloak at hand over their shoulders, Stumps began to spoon barley into their mouths like a doting mother. With their actions in the forest that day, the boy soldiers had earned their place as members of the section.

  The tent flap pulled back, the howling winds causing the fire to dance and shimmy in its pit.

  ‘Felix,’ Pavo summoned me, his bitter mask firmly in place. ‘Let’s go.’

  I got to my feet.

  ‘Where’s Titus?’ the centurion asked the assembled members.

  Moonface covered for him. ‘Latrines.’

  ‘I’ve got an orders group. I’m taking Felix as a runner.’

  Chickenhead raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The veteran would know that the army held its orders groups late in the evening, and the sun, hidden as it was, was yet to set. He might have wondered at the anomaly, but he could never have guessed at the true reason for our early departure.

  But perhaps someone had, because as we emerged from the hide of the tent, we found a section of the legion’s elite First Cohort waiting grim-faced in the rain.

  ‘You.’ A scarred centurion pointed at me. ‘You’re the one they found in the woods?’

  ‘I am,’ I answered eventually.

  ‘Come with us,’ he ordered. ‘Governor Varus wants to speak with you.’

  28

  Pavo had attempted to accompany me upon my summons to the governor, but the senior centurion had ordered him to stand down.

  ‘When will I get him back?’ Pavo had pressed. ‘I’m already down thirty men, and he’s one of my best.’

  ‘Soon enough,’ he was told with finality.

  So far as I could tell, I was not a prisoner. I still carried my dagger and short sword at my waist, and walked freely with the First Cohort’s centurion at the head of his men. To be appointed to a legion’s First Cohort was a great honour, and I knew that to press this stringent professional for information would be a waste of time. Instead, as we trudged through the gelatinous mud of the camp, I took the opportunity to think.