Blood Forest Read online

  ‘Let’s go,’ Pavo called.

  The rain-filled sky was still dark as we shuffled from the ramparts, our guard duty finally at an end.

  ‘Get close,’ he ordered, and our century huddled as one mass around the silhouette of our centurion. ‘We’re forming up to march at the end of this watch, so if you need to shit or pray, then do it now.’

  Their orders received, most of the century stayed in position, too tired to seek out sanctuary that they knew by now did not exist, but I saw Titus’s large shadow break from the ranks. Despite the fatigue of my body and mind, I wanted to think, and to move, and so I followed, falling into step alongside the brute.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, feeling as though the experiences of the past few days had earned me the privilege of such questions.

  ‘We need food.’

  We found it amongst the camp followers. Unburdened by arms and armour, some entrepreneurial souls had saddled themselves with the supplies Varus had ordered left behind when the baggage train was abandoned. Now these morsels were selling at a hundred times their worth.

  To protect their investments, the tradesmen had taken on the service of a section of auxiliary soldiers, whose cohort commander had doubtless been paid off handsomely for the guard force. It was to one of these Batavian soldiers that Titus spoke. A pouch of coins was produced from within the big man’s tunic, and in return he was given a small parcel wrapped in cloth. It was barely the size of Titus’s gnarled fist, but he made no objection.

  We walked away in silence. I knew that to procure the food for the section Titus had given up a considerable slice of his personal wealth – perhaps all of it. It was a selfless act of comradeship, and I muttered as much to the man.

  ‘If you’re all too weak to fight, then I die,’ he grunted in response.

  ‘If you say so.’ I shrugged, certain that his reply was nothing more than the keeping up of appearances.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I pushed on, desperate to distract myself.

  ‘If you have to,’ Titus replied, no doubt for the same reason.

  ‘Why did you come back to the eagles?’ I paused to gauge the man’s reaction. His thick brow knotted, but there was no sign of his anger flaring, and so I continued. ‘You did your twenty years in the desert. How did you end up here with a new legion, half a world away?’

  Several wet footsteps passed, and I expected that his answer had passed with them.

  It had not.

  ‘As part of my discharge, they gave me a farm,’ Titus told me, his hard voice bitter. ‘A farm. Barren scraps on a slope so fucking steep you could hardly stand on it.’

  ‘So you couldn’t work it?’ I asked naively.

  ‘Of course I fucking worked it,’ the man shot back with anger and pride. ‘I dug out that slope until it was flat. I carried in rich soil from miles away. I made it work.’

  ‘Then why come back to the legions? To this?’ I gestured at the chaos around us, wanting to take advantage of Titus’s brief openness.

  ‘You know why.’ As he spoke, his tone was the softest I had ever heard it, oiled wood instead of steel. ‘A man needs family.’

  I wanted to ask him more, but something in those last words told me it would be a mistake to do so. I had got as much as I could from the big man.

  We reached our own family shortly afterwards, and it was a family, I knew. It wasn’t as simple as thinking of the section as seven brothers, for Titus was both mother and father, and Chickenhead the distressed uncle, but it was a family nonetheless. Dysfunctional but fiercely loyal.

  ‘Here.’ Titus handed out the food to his charges. ‘Get this scoff down your necks. Water, too.’

  ‘You’re not eating?’ Stumps asked, and Titus shook his head.

  ‘I had mine on the way back,’ our leader lied. ‘Now shut up and eat.’

  We did, while the slate sky above us began to grow a lighter grey with the dawn.

  ‘Form up! Prepare to march!’ came the order that we both dreaded and welcomed, knowing that the enemy were now only heartbeats away. One way or another, we would soon see an end to our suffering, and so, as we took our places in the ranks, we not only prepared to march. We prepared ourselves to die.

  In the darkness, it was impossible to tell how deep the ranks of our formation were, but it was evident that Prefect Caeonius had elected to form the two battle groups into short, dense units, rather than the long column that had been strung out through the forest in the previous days.

  I found myself on the outside of the formation, with Titus in front of me and Stumps to my right. Behind me was a soldier from another section, his jaw chattering uncontrollably – from cold or fear, I did not know, nor would I blame him for either.

  The wind whistled through the ranks, carrying with it the sound of shield bumping against shield, steel pulled free of its sheath and final words of encouragement between friends. From other parts of the camp, it carried the terrible cries of the wounded. Once again, those too maimed to march would be left behind, sentenced to die hideously at the hands of the Germans. I only hoped that their comrades would do the right thing and end their misery quickly before the army took flight.

  Looking at the shadowed faces of the section, I saw men grown hard against such sounds and thoughts. Even young Micon and Cnaeus were unflinching as tortured screams tore through the gloom.

  It was Chickenhead who broke, the once solid veteran cut free of the bonds of discipline now that he no longer cared for his life.

  ‘Out of my fucking way,’ he ordered, and began to push his way out of the centre ranks, where he had been placed by Titus.

  ‘Out of my way!’ he shouted again, his red eyes furious as Titus’s hand shot out to grip him by the sagging flesh of his throat. ‘Let go of me,’ he choked.

  ‘Get back in your place,’ Titus growled.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Chickenhead managed, and tried to spit, the pathetic fluid dribbling across his chin.

  ‘And where will you go, you daft cunt?’ Stumps asked his friend.

  ‘I’ll stay with the wounded.’

  ‘The wounded are already dead,’ Stumps replied coldly.

  A strangled bark of laughter forced its way from the veteran’s throat, Chickenhead’s red eyes bulging with amusement. ‘We’re all dead, you soft bastard! Better to get it over with here and now, than drag it out in that fucking forest.’

  Titus’s patience ran out. His free hand slammed into the breastplate of Chickenhead’s armour, driving the air from his lungs with such force that the man’s already bulging eyes looked like they would burst, and his knees buckled.

  ‘Enough of your shit,’ Titus swore, taking his hand from the veteran’s throat and allowing Moonface and Stumps to hold him upright. ‘Find your balls.’

  ‘Battle group!’ a voice called from the darkness. ‘By the centre, quick march!’

  There were no trumpets. No horns. No unified slap of sandals against the dirt. Instead, a dense mass of men stirred muscles that had passed the point of endurance, shuffled across the earthen ramparts and marched towards the dark horizon of the enemy’s greatest ally: the forest.

  As we moved, a figure appeared to my left, outside of the ranks. It was Pavo, come to talk to Titus ahead of me.

  ‘Two battle groups,’ he told his most trusted section commander. ‘We’re in the lead one, Caeonius commanding. We hit the Germans and push through.’

  Titus made no comment. This was neither the time nor the place for elaborate plans. Only brute strength and the will to survive could carry us to safety.

  ‘I don’t see there being any chance for open manoeuvres and drill,’ Pavo concurred. ‘This is going to be a brawl, Titus. Just keep your boys tight, and push forward. Keep them tight, and don’t leave anyone behind. That’s all we can do.’

  With those words, the centurion took his leave.

  ‘Obstacles up ahead!’ came the calls from several voices, and the body of men shuddered as the march across the op
en ground ended and the battle group’s vanguard entered the forest. Obstructions would no longer be cleared from the army’s path, and each man clambered up and over the fallen trees as best as he could. This opened up holes in the formation and destroyed any chance of cohesive movement, but the forest had already proven that to attempt such unity was fruitless.

  ‘Help each other,’ Titus ordered as we came across our first fallen tree trunk. Fresh and fit, we could have leaped across it while burdened with a full load of equipment, but drained and bruised, we crossed the obstacle like a gaggle of aged spinsters.

  And yet progress was good. The blanket of fog lay thick on the ground, but my mind was attuned to movement in such conditions, and I reckoned that we were making good distance, while still under some cover of darkness.

  I was not the only man to sense it, and a murmur of encouragement rippled through the ranks as men dared to believe that we had passed through the thickest parts of the forests, and that maybe today would offer us the chance to hold our formations, and dare the Germans to attack us in open battle.

  The Germans … they were not idle as we fled, and in the distance came the first sounds of steel on steel. The challenge of war cries. The screams of the dying.

  ‘They’re attacking the rearguard,’ Stumps thought aloud.

  If that were true, then Arminius was not content to bleed the army slowly to death in the forest. No matter if it was a harassing attack, he was facing us openly.

  ‘He has all the cavalry, doesn’t he?’ a voice asked.

  It was young Cnaeus. In a matter of days, the boy soldier had gone from a student of war to an academic. He knew that without our own cavalry to beat off the attacks, the German horsemen would be free to swoop on to our formations of infantry, picking them off with javelin and spear. It seemed that now, whether in the forest or in the open, Arminius would hold the advantage.

  Still, the attacks in the open seemed brazen from a man who had been so calculating in his every move. Why would he give up the advantage of the forest now? Why were his troops attacking our rear in numbers, when they could far more easily bleed us from our flanks in the trees? This was their homeland, their turf. Our nearest sanctuary was days away, even without the need to fight our way there.

  Then, as the fog began to lift, we were given our answer.

  ‘What is that?’ Stumps asked, squinting at a thick smudge that ran below a crest on the horizon. ‘Battle formations? Are they goin’ to stand against us?’

  ‘No,’ young Cnaeus replied, his youthful eyes sharp. ‘It’s a wall.’

  And as the fog burned away, and we marched ever closer, I saw that the boy soldier was right.

  It was the final piece of the trap. Arminius had built a wall, and if we were to have any hope of escape, then we would have to cross it.

  The skirmishes of the forest were over.

  Battle was upon us.

  44

  The rampart ran along the lowest slope of a crest, below which was the track that the battle group would have to follow to avoid marshlands to the east and thick forest to the west. Once again, Arminius had shown his guile, and instead of placing his defensive works directly across the line of the Roman advance, he had placed it at an oblique angle that would allow the tribesmen to pelt our units with stone, javelin and spear should we try to manoeuvre by it. The wall was constructed from intertwined withies – strong and flexible willow stems – and into this barricade Arminius had included sally ports from which his men would be able to rush down and exploit any breach in the flanks of our bedraggled battle groups.

  ‘The bastard built this weeks ago,’ Stumps observed, and no one argued with him. Considering the scale and the quality of the works, there was no doubt that Arminius’s treachery had been planned long ago. Through guile and deceit, he had led Varus’s army to its place of execution, and this rampart was the chopping block on which the legions must lay down their necks.

  ‘We can’t march past it,’ I thought aloud. ‘With the high ground they can pick us apart. They’ll hit us with missiles and harassing attacks until we break; and when we do, Arminius will have his shock troops ready to smash into that gap and tear us apart. Once we break, it’s all over.’

  Titus considered my words, and showed his agreement by spitting. ‘Hit-and-run with these bastards is over. It’s a frontal assault on that thing, and clear them out from behind it.’

  At the head of the battle group, Prefect Caeonius came to the same conclusion. What other choice was there? His orders reached us through Pavo moments later.

  ‘We’re going in testudo!’ Pavo called, adrenaline raising his voice an octave. ‘Keep your shields tight! Hold together! When we break through, hold formation and we’ll slaughter these goat-fucking cunts!’

  His words were met with little enthusiasm. Only Stumps seemed to smile. ‘All fucking campaign, all I’ve heard is “wait till we get to fight them in formation”.’ The man cackled manically. ‘Well, here’s your chance, boys! It’s hold on to your nuts, and straight up the guts! What a fucking riot!’ he concluded, spitting for luck.

  Looking around me, I saw that the morning’s fog was nothing more than a whisper now. The German wall and rampart were stark against the slope, the shape of men visible as they climbed its heights to taunt us. All around me, tired red eyes peered out from beneath the steel peaks of helmets. Other sets of eyes were squeezed shut, while below them cracked lips moved frantically in desperate prayer. I caught the smell of shit, and knew that more men would paint their thighs before we ever reached the walls.

  We waited like this for the order to advance. Who knows how long we stood for? I have heard some soldiers say that in battle, time becomes a blur. For others, the wait was stretched out as if into infinity. Some suffered it in silence, while others beat at their armour and chanted mantras or promises. No one man was like another in his preparation for or experience of combat, yet each action was born of the same reason – the terror of the unknown.

  The terror of death.

  ‘Battle group!’ the order came. ‘Form testudo!’

  The sound was like a thunderclap as men on the outside of the formation overlapped their shields by their sides, while those in the centre raised them overhead with tired arms. At once we were cast into darkness, thin slits of grey light doing little to illuminate our gaunt faces. The stink of sweat, breath and infected wounds filled my nostrils.

  ‘Come on, you fuckers,’ I heard Stumps curse. ‘Let’s go. Let’s fucking go. Straight up the guts! Woo!’

  He was answered by a trumpet note, and the formation of shields lurched forward at a slow march, footing insecure thanks to the darkness and slippery ground.

  Knowing that every step carried us closer to the enemy, men became more vocal now, promising death to the enemy or begging to be delivered from it themselves. For others such as I, now was the time for deep, ragged breaths as we sought to control shaking limbs.

  Fuck, I was scared.

  I didn’t want to die, but I knew that every step carried me towards that likely fate. All I could hope was that it would be quick. Please, if it should come, let it be quick.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Is it too late to run?

  Of course it was. Run, and the Germans would have me as a grotesque plaything, as they did Rufus. Did I want to die with my cock and balls stuffed into my mouth? No. If I was going to go, then better it be over in a burst of adrenaline and chaos.

  My breathing sounded as though it came from a terrified bull, and over the sound of these breaths I now heard the guttural challenges of the German tribesmen. They were confident in victory, and almost mocking in their war cries. To hear them so clearly, the rampart must be close.

  Close enough that I could die here.

  Our arrival was announced by the sound of stone striking hide as the Germans began to pelt the leading shields with slingshot and rocks. Men began to cry out, some from wounds but most to gain the confidence they needed to press forward into the stor
m.

  I was one of them.

  ‘Fuck you!’ I screamed at no one and everyone. ‘Fuck you!’

  Then, without warning, the formation came to a shuddering halt, and my nose pressed against the cold metal of Titus’s mail – the leading troops had reached the rampart.

  ‘Tools forward!’ came the order. ‘Tear it down! Get the fucking wall down!’

  Under cover of the leading shields, men on their knees began to frantically hack at the withies that made up the wall, desperate to open us a hole through which we could push in, and engage the enemy.

  But the Germans above them were not idle, and stones began to rain on to shields and skulls. Even strong arms would have struggled to hold off this hellish downpour, but weakened by fatigue, the leading troops had no chance, and as the rocks broke down the protection, German spears and javelins found Roman flesh. Screams echoed beneath the shields. The smell of piss and shit grew stronger.

  ‘Get us up there!’ I heard called again and again, finally realizing that the demand came from Chickenhead, spittle flying from his mouth.

  ‘More men on the tools!’ came Pavo’s shout, though I could see little of the man, or anything else, my entire vision taken up by Titus’s wide back. ‘Second Century, push up! Push up!’ he ordered, and we struggled to obey, moving in half-steps.

  To my right, I saw the first of our wounded crawling back between the legs of their comrades, blood trailing in their wake. Others lay where they fell, skulls caved in from the rain of rocks, limbs twitching as their bodies gave up the fight.

  The sound ahead was chaos now, screams and war cries, taunts and defiance. Somehow, orders cut through the madness, and our century was amongst those pressing through the ranks ahead, shields held aloft above our heads as we collected tools from the hands of the dead and dying.

  ‘Bring down the wall!’ Pavo called, and I saw it now through a tangle of legs and armour, the wood chipped from Roman tools and spattered with Roman blood. Shafts of light broke through the ceiling of shields as spear and stone poured down from above.