Blood Forest Page 23

  His animal instinct honed through adrenaline, he felt my gaze and looked my way. I saw no recognition in his eyes, only death. My stomach lurched at the sight of it.

  Suddenly I realized that the skirmish was over. One minute we had been besieged by enemies, the next we were alone, the only Germans we could see the dead and dying. Titus hunted these men one by one, taking great pains to prolong their suffering.

  I could hear battle still raging in the trees beyond us, but the distance had grown. We were in danger of being separated from the army.

  ‘Titus,’ I called. ‘We have to get back to the century.’

  I was ignored.

  Slowly, as if approaching a hungry lion, I stalked towards him. I held a German sword in my hand, ready to bring it up and defend myself should the big man strike, but Titus was too engrossed in his task to notice my presence. On his knees, the veteran was pressing his thumbs into the eyes of a wounded spearman.

  The man’s screams cut through my core.

  ‘Titus!’ I called, louder this time. ‘Fucking look at me!’

  He did, and my bones froze as if winter had come. He was a beast. Nothing in his eyes was human.

  ‘Titus,’ I managed to murmur.

  The killer then got to his feet, leaving his victim groaning in agony and clutching at a destroyed face. I looked at Titus’s hands, seeing the viscous fluids dripping from his thumbs.

  ‘Gods,’ I managed again, tasting bile in my mouth. ‘Leave him. We have to get back to the others.’

  As Titus looked me up and down, I was gripped by fear. I knew that, if he chose to do so, this hate-filled animal could kill me within moments.

  Instead, he spoke. ‘Rufus is dead,’ he told me in a voice of stone.

  ‘I know,’ I answered. ‘We need to get back to the section, and look to the others.’

  He seemed to consider my words, even turning his head in the direction of the sound of battle, but when he spoke again, I knew that he would not be rushed from the site of his friend’s body – not when there were still German wounded lying scattered in the mud.

  ‘Rufus is dead,’ he said again, and then set to torturing his enemies.

  38

  Titus took his time in killing the German wounded. A few were lucky, too far gone to offer the man any sense of sport in his retribution, and these he dispatched quickly by blade. The conscious were not so fortunate, and died in agony, Titus beating them to death with stones, or choking the life from them with his gnarled hands.

  I didn’t see most of it: I turned my back – for our own safety, rather than from unease. The sounds of fighting could still be heard, but the trees and the storm made it impossible to guess at what distance – I didn’t want to be surprised by a rush of German reinforcements heading to the battle. Then, as the last German took his final gasp, I became aware of a new sound.

  Crying.

  I turned, seeing Titus sitting back on his heels, his killer’s bloodied hands tight over his face as his body was racked with sobs. I turned my eyes back to the trees, not wanting to linger on his grief, but unwilling to leave him alone in the forest. Consumed by misery as he was, I was certain that he would not survive without me.

  I was wrong. As quickly as the flood had come, the well of Titus’s tears dried. The sobs lasted for mere seconds, and then, with the silence of a predator, he pushed his huge form to its feet and stared in my direction.

  Tracts of tears had cut through the blood on his face. His eyes empty of all emotion, Titus looked like some creature of nightmare.

  He looked as I had appeared to Arminius.

  ‘We need to find the column.’ He spoke as if the dawn’s bloodshed had never happened and his closest friend were still drawing breath.

  Surprised by his about-turn, I cast an involuntary look at the deadfall that had crushed Rufus’s mutilated corpse.

  ‘Rufus is dead.’ Titus spoke coldly, and I recognized in the tone a man who had spent all sentiment, and was now reduced to an empty vessel.

  ‘We need to find the column,’ he repeated, cocking his head at the sound of battle. ‘Rufus is dead.’

  And so we left our comrade to the forest.

  The forest floor was littered with the dead and dying, Roman and German spread beneath the trees like decaying apples. When the storm’s winds finally abated, flocks of crows would feast, but for now, the bodies lay unmolested in the tangles of undergrowth.

  The clash of sword on shield was a constant echo as we made our way back towards the column, the dead our signposts towards our comrades, who I hoped yet lived. Titus seemed solely focused on finding yet more enemies to slay.

  ‘Soldier,’ I heard through the wind, the word a desperate plea. ‘Soldier!’

  I found the source, a veteran of our own legion, not long for this world. I took in the man’s sorry state, recognizing that he had been left for dead at the bottom of a water-filled ditch. Somehow, he had found the strength to crawl to the trench’s top before his reserves had finally run out. His guts were spread beneath him.

  ‘Please,’ he grunted through clenched teeth, gesturing at a blade in his hand. ‘I can’t.’

  Meeting the man’s blood-red eyes, I stepped forward. The hand that I placed on his shoulder was more to steady myself than he. Then, before I had a chance to rethink my action, I drove my dagger into the veteran’s heart. I felt him shudder, crimson running from his lips as his red-raw eyes rolled back into their sockets.

  I turned my head away from the man I had killed. Titus was looking at me. He made no comment. He simply walked into the trees.

  And so I staggered on behind him.

  I do not know how many of the fallen we passed in the forest, nor how long we wandered. I know only that I hastened two more of our own on to their ancestors, their dying stares seared into my own eyes, a mix of pathetic gratitude that the pain would end and dreadful fear of the unknown beyond.

  ‘The column,’ Titus grunted with no visible relief. Only when he slapped me hard across the face did I realize that I had not seen our soldiers through the trees because my own eyes were filled with pitiable tears.

  Titus called out to the nearest troops. They were not engaged by the enemy, and shuffled slowly along the dirt of a narrow track, wild eyes searching the forest for the next ambush.

  ‘Your cohort’s up ahead,’ a veteran told us. He had taken command after both his century’s centurion and optio had been killed during a few minutes’ combat. ‘What’s left of it,’ he added, spitting on a German corpse.

  Titus used his bulk to forge us a path ahead through the column, though the body of men had long since ceased to bear a resemblance to the proud formation that had marched out of the summer encampment at Minden. More and more, the army was becoming a group of frightened men who huddled beside their comrades as they headed into a storm of wind, rain and spears. I had seen an army coming apart at the seams before, and I knew that once the thread of discipline was pulled, there was little to stop the unravelling. Unless we cleared the forest, I was certain that the Germans would kill us with a thousand cuts.

  With such dark thoughts in my mind, I almost lost myself to tears when I heard a familiar voice call along the trail.

  ‘Titus! Titus!’

  I turned with the big man, and there I saw Stumps.

  He was alone.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Titus demanded.

  Stumps didn’t answer at first. Instead, he embraced his friend and, without hesitation, myself. ‘Further up the column,’ he then explained. ‘I came back to try and find more javelins.’ He swallowed. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Rufus is.’ Titus spoke tonelessly.

  Stumps had no reply. He only nodded, and swallowed again.

  ‘Take us to them,’ Titus ordered.

  We pushed onwards, the mud beneath our feet like churned butter stained crimson. In a short time we had reached the remainder of the section. Miraculously, they were all still alive; not all of the legion
had been so fortunate.

  ‘Casualties are bad, Titus,’ Moonface explained once he had finished kissing Titus’s stone-like face. ‘Fucking bad. Optio Cato’s dead – took a spear in the neck. Quintus and Gnaeus are both gone. Horsehead lost an arm and bled out. Even the legion commander’s dead.’ He cursed. ‘A tribune took over, and rotated the cohorts. Fourth Cohort’s in the lead now, so we’re just following on and trying not to get killed in the harassing attacks.’

  I looked towards the side of the tracks, seeing a half-dozen German bodies, and a few of our own. Stumps noticed.

  ‘They put a big effort in when we broke camp, but they’ve slackened off since. If only the fucking weather would do the same.’

  It was only now that I was reunited with my comrades that I became aware once again of the howling wind and driving rain, a sensation that had been lost to me as I concentrated on finding the column and avoiding German steel.

  Looking ahead at what remained of the century, I saw the distinctive shorn crest of Pavo’s helmet. The centurion yet lived.

  ‘He hasn’t stopped smiling since the legate was gutted,’ Stumps commented.

  I looked over the faces of the section, finding no smiles there, only the worn-out stares of soldiers who had already been forced to witness and endure more than any man should. In such circumstances, I expected the boy soldiers to suffer the most, but as my eyes settled on Chickenhead’s pinched face, I saw a soul twisted with torment. In the hours since I had last seen the soldier, he had aged by a hundred years.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘The kitten.’ Stumps shrugged beneath his armour. ‘It’s really gone downhill this morning, and Chicken’s not taking it well. I don’t think Lupus is goin’ to make it out of this forest.’

  I couldn’t meet the man’s eye, and made no reply – because I was certain that none of us would.

  We trudged on in silence broken only by mumbled prayers and the absent-minded muttering of curses. Occasionally slingshot or spear would be spat forth from the forest. Sometimes a Roman voice would cry out in agony and fear, often pleading for a mother or loved one. As we marched on, I saw these victims beside the tracks, their pathetic moans hardening some men’s souls and breaking others.

  ‘For the gods’ sake, don’t leave me!’ an auxiliary trooper begged in his thick Latin. ‘Don’t leave me!’

  What choice did we have? We left him.

  We left him, and so many others.

  ‘Keep your fucking eyes front,’ Titus ordered, desperate to hold his section together. ‘If their mates can’t do it for them, then it’s not down to us.’

  Slowly but surely, the idea of a unified army was being watered down so that the soldiers’ sole concern was the survival of their closest friends, and themselves.

  ‘Kill me! Kill me!’ a maimed soldier begged.

  ‘Kill yourself!’ Stumps screamed, at breaking point.

  The march through the abandoned wounded proved too much for many. Veteran and boy soldier alike broke in the face of the dying and the constant threat from the forest, charging into the trees with mad cries of vengeance. None were seen again, but some were heard as their screams echoed through the branches.

  ‘This is a fucking nightmare,’ Moonface choked.

  ‘You wake up from a nightmare.’ Stumps hit his friend hard across the shoulders, and then across the steel of his helmet. ‘This is a test! Fucking get a grip, you cunt!’ he hissed into the face of his comrade, slapping him hard to drive home the point.

  The blows worked, and Moonface rallied. Then he steadied himself by cursing beneath his breath, promising to bring revenge and murder to every home in Germany. He vowed that he would torture the men, rape the women and enslave the children. Such heated bile brought him some consolation from the misery around him. It even galvanized the others. I began to dare hope that, in this mass of misery, perhaps our own section had the fortitude to survive with our minds intact.

  But it wasn’t to be. Hope for Chickenhead’s sanity fled with Lupus the kitten’s final breath, the tiny creature losing its battle against the elements as we floundered in the mud.

  ‘No!’ the veteran wailed, as if he held his own child. ‘No! Don’t! Don’t!’ He dropped to his knees on the filthy track, his ugly face pressed into the soaked fur of the tiny body, now rigid, beyond any hope of salvation.

  ‘Chicken …’ Stumps tried, reaching out.

  ‘Get away from me!’ his comrade screamed as he drew his sword and threatened his friends. ‘I want to die!’ he pleaded, and then made to break for the forest and death on the German spears.

  It was the quick action of Stumps and Moonface that stopped him, their shields raised to block his path. They risked death in doing so, for their friend was so consumed by grief that he resembled the animalistic Titus I had seen spreading murder.

  ‘I want to die!’ Chickenhead called into the trees. ‘I want to die.’ He dropped his sword into the mud, tears cascading across his pockmarked cheeks.

  This was not the time to beat and threaten. Not knowing what else to do, I stepped forward and embraced the man.

  ‘Just leave me,’ the veteran sobbed into the armour of my shoulder. He had spent twenty years killing and losing comrades on Rome’s behalf, but the death of his tiny companion was one blow too many for the man’s fragile mind.

  I looked at Titus, and saw nothing on his face. His eyes were empty and dark. When he moved, I expected a blow that would try to restore the veteran to his senses. Instead, Titus hoisted the old soldier on to his shoulder as if he were a sack of grain. Chickenhead made no motion to fight it, as limp as a young child carried by an impatient father.

  I looked at them with a sense of disbelief. While other soldiers lay dying in the mud, guts in their hands and pleading for mercy, a man I knew to be a murderer carried a heartbroken veteran and his dead pet towards sanctuary.

  Sanctuary, for word now spread that there was a clearing up ahead.

  At least for a moment, we were leaving the forest.

  39

  Wind and rain pelted my face. My throat was dry, my stomach empty. There was no muscle in my body that didn’t ache with every shuffled step. No bone that was not bruised to the marrow.

  And yet, leaving the trees, I felt as if the weight of the world were lifted from my shoulders.

  Open ground. Roman battle lines. Here lay sanctuary in our formations, and victory – if only the Germans would oblige us with combat.

  Of course, I did not expect that they would, but at least for a moment we did not need to fear the next step, or shadow.

  And a moment was all it would be for, scanning the horizon, the smudge of unbreaking trees was visible through the grey gloom.

  ‘We’re not out of the forest,’ Stumps groaned. ‘When does the fucking thing end? Do we even know if it ends?’

  No one had an answer for him. Instead, Pavo’s clipped tones called through the winds. ‘Century! Move from column to line!’

  Despite our fatigue, hours of drill practice ensured that we quickly changed formation, our depleted century forming a unit that was eleven men across and four deep. I found myself in the front rank, which allowed me to lean forward and see the wings of the army begin to stretch out in both directions as the troops cleared the nightmare of the forest.

  It also allowed me to see that no enemy formations stood ahead of us.

  Moonface spat. ‘They won’t come. Fucking goat-fucking cowards.’

  Now that we were in position, Titus placed Chickenhead down on to the earth, the veteran still trembling from grief.

  Moonface spoke again. ‘They won’t come.’

  Something in those tired words triggered the volcano of Chickenhead’s sorrow to erupt in anger. The old soldier’s hand flashed out to snatch a javelin from young Micon’s grip, and before anyone could lay a hand on him, he charged forward from the formation.

  ‘Come on, you bastards!’ he cried, sprinting across the wet grass and brandish
ing the weapon in the air. ‘Come and die! Come and fucking die!’

  ‘Titus!’ I heard Pavo call in frustration, but we didn’t need to be told: the veterans of the section were already running with me after our errant brother. Moonface was the first to reach him, and brought him down by leaping on to his back.

  ‘They won’t fight!’ Chickenhead snarled, pinned to the earth, his teeth gnashing like a hunting dog.

  ‘You’ll be killed by our own commanders if you run like that, you mad old bastard!’ Moonface shouted into his friend’s face.

  ‘So let them kill me!’ Chickenhead shot back, and from the wild abandon in his eyes, I knew that he meant it. ‘Let them kill me!’ he challenged again.

  Instead, we dragged him back to the century.

  Pavo, his face freshly scarred since I had last seen him, stormed across to us. ‘It’s been a hard day. But the next man who leaves the formation will be broken for it. Fucking broken,’ he promised.

  ‘His cat died, sir.’ Young Micon spoke up as if the words explained everything, and an army of thousands was not being torn apart in the German forest.

  Pavo’s mouth dropped open at the insubordinate answer, but such was the absurdity of the comment that the centurion was silenced.

  ‘The Germans won’t fight us here,’ he finally managed, turning on his heel. ‘So get ready to make camp.’

  Only minutes later, the centurion’s prediction came true. Governor Varus had survived the forest, and now ordered that his legions build a marching camp in the open ground.

  ‘His cat died?’ Stumps asked, pulling his battered helmet from his head and shaking his head in wonder at Micon’s insubordination. ‘His fucking cat died.’

  After the long morning of bloodshed, it was time for the army to lick its wounds.

  I swung the pick into the dirt. The power behind the blow was pathetic, my muscles spent. All around me, other soldiers battled fatigue to dig the ditches and build the ramparts of the army’s marching camp.