Blood Forest Read online

  ‘There is no sense in fear, lad,’ he concluded, and as he turned on his heel, I struggled to stand. I had to know more. I had to.

  ‘What are they afraid of?’ I blurted.

  ‘What we’re all afraid of,’ Caeonius answered without breaking stride, his weathered face grinning as he delivered his verdict. ‘Death.’

  30

  I must have looked like a drunk as I struggled to make my way back to the lines of my century, my sandals slipping in mud, head beating like the drum of a slave ship, muscles aching and ablaze. The storm still raged, the gusts threatening to topple me into the muck, but at least the slapping rain was a cold comfort against my skin.

  Finally I reached Pavo’s tent. I did not stand on ceremony or rank, and threw back the canvas flap.

  ‘Shit,’ the centurion said as I stumbled within and sank to one knee. He was quick to his feet. Having pulled the canvas tightly shut against the tempest, he stood over me, his eyes narrow and calculating. ‘This wasn’t about me, was it?’ he asked cautiously, as if I carried the plague.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’ He gestured that I should sit on his bedroll, but offered no assistance. I grunted as I sat back, my head resting on the tent’s hide walls.

  ‘The grove,’ I told him. ‘They thought I was a spy.’

  ‘Are you?’ he asked, candid now. After what we had discussed previously in this tent, there was little need for guile.

  ‘No.’

  Pavo grunted, as if my near torture and death were of little consequence. He had his own plans, plans which I had helped to engineer, and they had come unravelled owing to my arrest.

  ‘We’ve missed our chance with the legion commander,’ he informed me as he drank from a wineskin. I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in surprise as he offered it to me. ‘He’s already issued the orders for the morning. So if he’s dead or alive, we’re still fucked.’

  ‘The vanguard?’ I guessed, and Pavo nodded. There was little anger in the movement, only resignation.

  ‘He’s given us the most honourable position.’ He managed to smile, and cast out his arms. ‘Honourable deaths for everyone.’

  ‘Do they know?’ I asked with a gesture of my head towards the other tents of the century, and my section.

  Pavo took the wineskin from me, and held it up as his answer. ‘In the morning.’ He shrugged. ‘The boys will have enough to deal with tonight.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, my stomach knotting at the thought of more imminent danger.

  Pavo took a deep draught of the wine, replaced the stopper, and got to his feet. ‘Can you walk?’ he asked.

  I nodded, the wine and short rest having done something to restore my balance, or at least I hoped so.

  ‘Then get to your feet, lucky one.’ He smiled dryly, surprising me once more by offering his hand. ‘Come and see what has become of Varus’s glorious army.’

  What was left of the century formed up in the darkness, forty-eight men huddled together against the tempest. I was far from the only man battered and bruised, but none of the soldiers bore worse than a flesh wound – those who had suffered more serious injuries had fallen from formation in the forest, and had likely died hideous deaths at the hands of the Germans.

  Now Pavo informed us that there would be more suffering before the dawn. ‘The governor’s ordered that we break camp before first light. The plan is to try and slip away in the dark, before the Germans can work out in which direction we’re going,’ he said, voice raised against the sweeping rains.

  ‘We’re not tearing down the camp?’ a veteran asked.

  ‘The camp stays up,’ Pavo told him. Beside me, Moonface’s mouth dropped aghast at the deviation from army practice.

  ‘The camp stays up,’ Pavo repeated. ‘And the baggage train stays here.’

  The second part of the announcement brought forth a series of disbelieving cries and curses, for to abandon the baggage train was an acknowledgment that the army was in far more trouble than the soldiers had been led to believe.

  I looked over the faces of my section. Chickenhead’s pinched face was as cold as marble. Rufus seemed to shake with anger. For my own part, the statement only confirmed what I had been led to believe by the demeanour of the army’s commanders – that they were running scared.

  ‘This is bollocks!’ a voice cried out to a chorus of loud agreement.

  Pavo called for silence. After a fraction of a second, he got it. His actions in the forest had earned him the respect of all but Titus, and he had become the century’s leader in more than name.

  ‘There’s something else,’ he announced, taking the helmet from his head so that he could address his men soldier to soldier, man to man.

  The action was so unlike the cocky bastard that I braced myself, for it could only be the most grave of news that was making the centurion behave in this way.

  And it was.

  ‘The badly wounded. They aren’t coming with us.’

  The howl of the wind and rain was drowned out by indignant curses at the idea of such an order. Where before there had been surprise and hurt pride, now there were only shouts of anger, reproach and fear.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Stumps called out. ‘Just how fucked are we?’

  Pavo had no answer, standing like a statue as the rain pelted his uncovered face.

  ‘This is a bloody disgrace!’ a veteran roared. ‘We can’t leave them! The goat-fuckers will skin them alive!’

  Optio Cato stepped forward to the front of the assembly. Pavo’s second in command, Cato was largely redundant in the century, every man knowing that it would be Titus who would step into Pavo’s shoes should the centurion fall, the natural laws of leadership and survival trumping the chain of command now that the army was in such dire straits.

  ‘Lads,’ Cato began, holding up his hands, ‘calm down! We don’t have any seriously wounded in the century. We’re not leaving anybody behind!’

  The words did something to restore order, loud curses reduced to grumbles.

  Pavo gestured that Cato should rejoin the ranks, then put his helmet back on, its shorn crest billowing in the wind. ‘We don’t,’ he agreed, his words directed at all present. ‘But other centuries do.’

  ‘What are you saying, Pavo?’ Titus growled from the rear ranks, sick of dancing around the matter. ‘Just tell us what the fuck is going on.’

  The centurion sought out the big man. There was no doubt that he had to force the bitter words from between his teeth, and when he spoke, even the hardest of the men swallowed.

  ‘We’re to report to the camp hospital and separate the wounded from their comrades,’ Pavo ordered, and I knew that with his next words, his eyes would become as dead as the night’s darkness. ‘We’re to make sure that they’re left behind.’

  31

  Formed into two ranks, Pavo led the century through the camp’s tented avenues, the mud a viscous oil beneath our feet.

  Everywhere in the darkness soldiers hurried about in preparation for the army’s early departure, taking what they needed from the baggage train and stowing it with their own personal equipment. Unlike the departure from the summer camp at Minden, these measures were accompanied by an air of desperation, and Chickenhead clucked at the army’s anxiety.

  ‘Wasting their time. They should just worry about sleep,’ he opined beside me. ‘We’re gonna have to fight our way out of this forest, Felix. All the stuff on the carrying yokes will be dumped by the time the day’s out, I promise you. Shields, sword and wineskin, that’s what we’ll be carrying.’

  We tramped on through the dirt, the veteran’s eye catching my own.

  ‘This bit’s going to be hard,’ Chickenhead added quietly, with a glance towards the younger members of the section.

  I said nothing. There was nothing to say. I knew what the old soldier meant: it would be down to the old sweats to take on the horror of separating the casualties from their friends, and to heap it on to our already polluted soul
s.

  ‘Century,’ Pavo called from the head of our pathetic formation. ‘Halt.’

  Our sandals slapped down into the mud. We were at the hospital. Braziers and lamps lit the area, and from the light that they cast, flames struggling and flickering in the wind, I saw other bodies of men. We were not the only century dispatched to this task.

  We waited a few minutes in the rain. Then, given away by the silhouette of their transverse crests in the darkness, I saw that Pavo had been joined by another centurion. Likely he was the commander of our cohort’s First Century, disseminating orders. Sure enough, Pavo then came down the line, issuing his own orders to each section. Eventually, he reached Titus.

  ‘Titus, I don’t have another section as salted as yours,’ the centurion began.

  ‘You can’t dress up a turd.’ Titus cut off Pavo’s speech, his deep voice resigned. ‘Just tell us what we’re doing.’

  Pavo did, and as we heard the words, our hearts sank.

  ‘I was hoping we’d get perimeter duty or something,’ Stumps said, echoing my own thoughts.

  But we did not. We were to pull the wounded and dying from the arms of their comrades.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Titus grunted. ‘Anyone hesitates, I’ll beat the shit out of him.’ The big man’s words were harsh, but well meant. He knew as well as anyone that this task would make our life-and-death struggle in the forest seem like a pleasant walk on a summer’s day. There was no adrenaline here to carry us through the suffering, only the acid in our stomachs and the lumps in our throats.

  Titus led us towards the large tent that acted as one of the marching camp’s hospital wards. By torchlight, I saw other sections enter the canvas to our left and right. Titus’s broad shoulders obscured my view as he pushed through the flap, but as I ducked within, I knew from horrid experience what I’d find.

  A brazier had been placed in the tent’s centre, its orange flames dancing on the waxed hide canvas. The grey smoke was thick, but it did little to mask the stink of wounds and shit. A narrow walkway crossed the tent’s mud floor, and to either side lay the wretched forms of men with appalling injuries clad in blood-soaked bandages. These poor souls ignored our presence, but their vigilant comrades, eyes burning as they glared at us, did not.

  They knew why we had come.

  ‘You’re not from the Nineteenth,’ a veteran accused us, rising from beside a soldier whose leg had been amputated below the knee.

  ‘We’re not,’ Titus stated simply.

  ‘Then what the fuck are you doing here?’ the soldier asked as half a dozen other men of the Nineteenth Legion also got to their feet.

  Titus said nothing, which was answer enough.

  ‘No.’ The soldier’s hand reached involuntarily for the pommel of his sword.

  ‘You don’t have a choice,’ Titus cautioned him, his tone grim.

  ‘I have a choice.’ This time, there was nothing automatic in the way that the veteran gripped his weapon.

  ‘Your friends are already dead.’ Titus grimaced. ‘Don’t join them.’

  ‘He’s my brother.’ The soldier forced the words out from between clenched teeth, and then his voice began to falter. ‘He’s my brother,’ he pleaded, and I could see that his eyes were becoming as wet as the night. ‘The Germans will show no mercy,’ he finished.

  It was Chickenhead who stepped forward, the old soldier moving past Titus to stand alone at the tent’s centre. ‘You’re right,’ he said, meeting the legionary’s tear-filled eyes. ‘They’ll show no mercy here, and they’ll show no mercy in the forest. Do you want to put your brother through that pain? Your comrades?’ he asked of the other soldiers. ‘This campaign is becoming a rout, friends. Give your brothers the chance to go with honour, and dignity. Not as some amusement to barbarians.’

  The silence in the tent was as heavy as the rain that beat the canvas. Despite the downpour, screams and shouts could be heard as other men were dragged from their comrades’ sides throughout the camp’s hospital tents.

  ‘There’s no hope?’ the veteran asked Chickenhead.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and spoke. ‘None for the wounded.’ Instantly I felt their stares burn into me. ‘I heard it from Varus’s lips myself,’ I finished, my skin flushing. ‘Arminius and his allies aren’t coming. We’re on our own.’

  ‘It’s over.’ Titus’s tone was final.

  The veteran recognized a battle lost. Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee and took the hand of his oblivious brother. ‘Forgive me,’ he managed. Tears ran down the leather-like skin of his cheeks.

  Then, throughout the temporary ward, other soldiers bade farewell to men they had sworn to protect. Men they had promised never to leave behind, no matter the odds or dangers. Mercifully, the most badly wounded had been placed within this tent, and none were conscious of their abandonment. The same could not be said of all within the camp, and cries for mercy pierced the night, raising the hairs on our already frozen bodies.

  ‘Report back to your units,’ Titus ordered and, slowly, the men began to file past our section, their heads down in shame. Only two refused to leave, clinging on to their comrades’ stretchers, eyes mad with grief.

  Titus handled one alone, lifting him as a father would his struggling child. It took myself, Moonface and Rufus to pull the second soldier away.

  ‘Leave me! Leave me!’ he screamed, thrashing in sorrow. ‘You cowards! Stand and fight! Stand and fight!’

  We threw him down hard into the dirt beyond the tent’s flap. It did little to dampen his rage, and instantly he sprang to his feet and rushed at the tent’s opening. Titus stepped forward and drove a huge fist into the side of his head, felling him like a tree. Then, as the man hit the ground, our section commander rained kicks on his prone form. Finally, the soldier was dragged to lie face down in the slippery filth, a warning to others.

  Re-entering the tent, Titus saw the faces of young Micon and Cnaeus filled with terror. The section commander’s blood boiled over at the sight of their naivety.

  ‘This is a fucking war,’ he snarled, stabbing his finger at the dying men. ‘This is it. This is what you signed up for. Are you enjoying it?’

  The boy soldiers had no answer for him. What man did?

  ‘Out!’ he bellowed. ‘All of you, out!’

  We complied with haste, the rain pelting our faces as we stood in the darkness, thankful to be away from the condemned. No one spoke, no one dared make a sound, and so I do not imagine I was the only one to hear Titus’s sword slide clear of its sheath, or hear it puncture flesh, or hear the wet sucking sound as it was pulled free from its victims.

  It was a few minutes before Titus rejoined us. When he finally did leave the tent, his eyes were as sunken and dark as a mine shaft. If it were possible for a man to age years in mere moments, then he had done so.

  No one could meet his eye. Still no one spoke. Knowing that the horrors were far from over, we merely followed.

  32

  Dawn was a few hours away. The century’s rotation at guard duty had come again. During the interceding hours between the hospital ward and the camp’s ramparts, no man had spoken, eaten or slept. Instead, the soldiers of the section sat and considered their own fates. Now even Micon and Cnaeus carried the thousand-yard stare of a veteran, their sight fixed on nothing, yet taking in everything.

  So deep in misery were we that not even the chilled rains or thundering winds could disturb our dark thoughts. I was picturing my own death, choking away my life on a cross, when I caught sight of movement in my peripheral vision.

  Pavo.

  ‘Titus.’ The wind carried his words to us. ‘Your section with me. We’re pushing out a hundred yards beyond the rampart. If there’re any Germans probing the lines, then it’s kill or capture. I’ll make the decision on the ground. Nobody acts unless I do.’

  I expected our section commander to make some protest, but Titus’s grim face didn’t change as he drew his short sword, and I realized that he was eager to s
pill blood.

  We followed Pavo in silence, the storm dampening any sound that our footfalls or equipment could make. Perhaps I should have been frightened to leave the camp’s rampart, but I wasn’t. The exertions of the night had drained me to a point where I was beyond caring about my own life and death. I could almost welcome the chance to die on an enemy spear, rather than under torture from my own comrades. If death was anything close to sleep, then it would be bliss.

  ‘Down,’ Pavo hissed and, following his example, the section prostrated itself in the soaking grass.

  Even in such a miserable position, sleep fought to overwhelm me. To resist, I dragged my fingernails across my cheeks until the skin broke. I pushed at my eyes until I felt the socket wall. None of it helped. I just wanted to sleep.

  Just one hour’s fucking sleep.

  Instead, I lay there. I do not know how long we were in that drenched position, with the chill of the earth rising through my sinewy flesh to shake the marrow in my bones, but when we stood, my joints groaned and clicked as if I were a man of a hundred. I heard a puppy-like whimper from Micon; the wretched boy soldier was on the edge of breakdown, his mind and body stretched to their limits.

  At least so he thought. I knew from experience that there was always more punishment that a human being could endure. His mind might break, but the body would go on, and I was equally certain that we would find such trials with the dawn.

  ‘Back,’ Pavo ordered with another hiss, satisfied that there were no enemy lurking in our sector.

  I was not so convinced. Given the weight of the downpour and the howl of the winds, I felt it would have been possible for an army to pass within ten yards of us and remain undetected, but it was not my decision to make, and I followed our leader back through the darkness.

  Another weary century had taken up position on the rampart, and challenged us half-heartedly with the night’s watchword. Pavo answered, and as we were allowed through, he stood atop the earthworks to count each man in as he passed, and ensure that we were all accounted for.