Blood Forest Page 9

  I thought our conversation would die there, the veteran doubtless picturing the young German girl he had raped when he was not much more than a child himself.

  ‘I’ve been stationed here my entire service.’ His voice creaked. ‘I’ve even been through that village again. When my twenty’s up, I’ll go back to Italy, but I’m not stupid enough to think that she won’t come with me. That’s the problem with what’s inside your head. It has to come with you. Don’t kid yourself that a few miles makes any difference.’

  He was the first of the veterans in the section to talk to me as a man. Traumatized as I was from my nightmare, I was too shocked to see the sweat’s candour for what it was – a recognition of a kindred, tortured spirit. But if I was shocked by the veteran’s behaviour up to that point, his next gesture threatened to overwhelm me.

  ‘Here,’ he offered, holding out Lupus. ‘Hold him. Give him a stroke if you like. It helps.’

  I took the struggling kitten in my hands, feeling the power of such a tiny creature hidden beneath the fur. With some encouragement from Chickenhead, the animal calmed, and I tentatively began to stroke its head and ears.

  The veteran was right. It helped. Concentrating on the kitten’s tiny beating heart, my own returned to its usual rhythm, the threat of its bursting through my ribs at an end.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, my eyes on the kitten.

  ‘You saved that lad,’ he offered by way of explanation. ‘He’s young, and that makes a boy do stupid things, but he didn’t deserve to die for it. If it was one of the others did what you did at the bridge, they’d be getting an award.’

  I grunted at that, knowing the truth in what he had said. ‘Regardless. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t tell the others,’ he answered, an edge of steel to his voice. ‘Bring him inside when you’re done.’

  He left me then, the life of his most treasured friend in my hands. I stayed in that spot, stroking and cooing, until the sky grew amber with the dawn.

  As I turned to step inside the hide structure, I felt a wave of troubled uncertainty wash over me.

  ‘Fuck,’ I growled beneath my breath, angry at my nightmares, and at myself. Angry, because I would no longer see the veteran as a soldier, a faceless killer in steel.

  I would see a comrade.

  15

  That morning, formed up on parade, Chickenhead made no mention of our talk. He was his usual self with the veterans, a part of the whole and yet aside, and I wondered which, if any, knew that the most gnarled sweat amongst them suffered with the savage memories of his early service. Likely none, I surmised. Weakness was something we hid from those closest to us, no matter the cost.

  Pavo approached the front of the parade, a creeping smile displacing his usual scowl. Titus knew his centurion well enough to read that omen.

  ‘We’re getting paid.’

  And he wasn’t wrong. After Pavo had informed the century of that fact, and once the cheers had died down, we were marched to the centre of the fort to receive the third and final instalment of that year’s wage.

  For a legionary, this pay would be three hundred sesterces, but the annual salary of nine hundred would suffer deductions for anything from equipment loss to donations towards a funeral fund. Every soldier grumbled that should they die for Rome, the least the Empire could do would be to bury them from out of its own pockets, but the reality was that each man was anxious for a good send-off, so that his spirits could be content and venerated by his ancestors. The last thing anybody wanted was to be a discarded corpse on a battlefield, and so the funeral funds and mess bills were paid despite the grumbles.

  Arriving at the centre of the camp, we joined the other centuries of our own legion and cohort, the men filing slowly along to receive their pay. Though these soldiers belonged to the same unit as the troops of my own century, they were mostly strangers, the section being a soldier’s close family, and the century his extended.

  As we drew nearer to the desks, my eyes were drawn to the gathered standards of the legions. These sacred totems had come from the hands of the emperor, and were topped by eagles crafted from silver, the bird of prey chosen because it was sacred to the god Jupiter. Each of these standards was a shrine in itself, but gathered here, under the watchful eye of the standard-bearers, the sight was almost too much for a reverent soul such as Moonface.

  ‘Such magnificence,’ he uttered in adulation.

  Stumps poked him. ‘It’s a bird on a stick.’

  Only after Titus reminded Moonface that a fight would result in a docking of pay did the enraged man stand down.

  I took in the sight of the standard-bearers, one for each of the three legions in camp. They were formidable-looking warriors, chosen for their heroism and dedication. The standards were prized by enemies the length of the world, and so the standard-bearer would always be found where fighting was at its thickest. The faces of the men were hidden from me by thick cloaks of bearskin slung over their shoulders, the snouts terminating in a peaked cap that set the wearer’s face into deep shadow. I shuddered at the sight of them.

  These standard-bearers were also responsible for their legion’s coffers, for the majority of men elected to hold most of their pay within the safety of a fort’s walls. When it came to my turn to make my mark and take the coin, the issuing centurion’s eyebrows raised as I stated that I wished to withdraw my full stipend.

  ‘There’s not much to spend it on in the forests, lad,’ he offered gently, hoping to change my mind.

  ‘I’d like to hold it, sir,’ I lied. ‘See how much my life is worth,’ I added with a smile.

  ‘You’re going to be disappointed, lad,’ he told me, and was not wrong. The weight of the coins was pitiful. I looked at Pavo, whose own pay would not be much higher. No wonder he aspired to be primus pilus – the First Spear, and most senior centurion in the legion, with an annual salary of one hundred thousand sesterces.

  With the money tied in a purse, and snug inside my tunic, I took my place on the side of the parade square, and waited in formation as the other men were paid. My eyes drifted from the chests of coins to the eagle standards, and the men that carried them. There were but twenty-eight legions in the whole of the Empire, and to be one of the few standard-bearers was an honour like no other.

  Mesmerized as I was by this elite, it took me a while to realize that our entire century had passed by the pay chests, and yet we remained on the square. Titus must have wondered at the reason himself, and quietly called to Pavo for the answer.

  ‘The governor’s coming out to make an address.’

  And so we waited in the sun, for hours it seemed, the square slowly filling with soldiers. They were smiling at first, anxious to be paid, but the smiles turned sullen when they understood that they’d be kept from the wine and whores to wait on Governor Varus’s oration.

  I was in the front rank, so when he did finally arrive, in the late afternoon, I was afforded a good look at a Roman who, by his position, was one of the most powerful men in the world. As Governor of Germany, Varus commanded five legions, and more than double that in auxiliary cohorts. All in all, it was almost a fifth of the Empire’s fighting strength.

  But strength was not a word that could be attributed to the general’s physical self. He wore armour, though I expect the aim was to give his body a harder look, rather than protection. His features were dark, the aquiline nose testament to his noble birth. Beneath this hook, an extra chin shone with sweat born from the effort of wearing battle attire. I have seen many leaders, and on first glance it seemed as though this one was more inclined to the court than the campaign trail. Little wonder the army had been inactive, and the German tribesmen had grown bold.

  Governor Varus now took his place on a dais, his strong voice at odds with his physique. As a noble, he would have been trained in oratory from a young age.

  ‘Brave soldiers of Rome!’ he began, and I groaned inwardly. Behind me, I heard Chickenhead snicker.

  ‘Let me
tell you of the glory that awaits us!’ Varus went on, and so began a tedious detailing of his grand plan.

  The wasted summer, it seemed, had been a ploy to lure out our enemies. The change of route to the Rhine, eschewing the forts and supplies on the River Lippe, was a feint that would catch our foe off guard.

  ‘He could spin a bloody cloak with his arsehole, this one,’ I heard Stumps pipe up beside me.

  It was true enough. Varus glossed over all of the shortcomings of his campaign, painting them as strokes of a master tactician. Despite Pavo’s repeated sharp glances, Stumps couldn’t resist a further jibe.

  ‘If he’d invited the Germans for this speech, they’d already have surrendered.’

  Perhaps Varus believed that this hot air was what the common soldiers wanted to hear. Officers and nobles, after all, rarely connected with the men below them, but in a sign that he was not totally oblivious to the desires of his troops, Varus now assured the ranks that there would be plenty of loot on the campaign, and that they were free to take from the Germans whatever they could find.

  ‘They pulled the feathers!’ Varus yelled above the cheers. ‘Now let them feel the eagle’s claws!’

  ‘At least the end was good.’ Stumps grinned. ‘Bit of loot! Don’t mind if I do.’

  We were dismissed, and marched back to our tents.

  As Titus counted the pile of coins in front of him, Stumps pushed the big man on his feelings towards the coming campaign.

  ‘We better march soon,’ Titus answered, stifling a yawn. ‘Every bastard in Germany must know what’s coming, and the longer we delay, the longer they’ve got to go burying their good stuff.’

  ‘They’ll be burying their sons and fathers soon,’ Moonface added with relish.

  ‘Oh, give it a break, you camp-fire hero,’ Chickenhead chided him. ‘Your sword’s seen about as much action as a virgin’s cunt.’

  Stumps gave a deep bark of a laugh and slapped his friend Moonface on the shoulder. ‘He got you there. Next time it’ll be “I was on the fort walls, when you were in yer dad’s balls!” Ha!’

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t shat yourself yet,’ Chickenhead spat at Stumps, unhappy to be mocked.

  ‘About what? This whole thing’s a riot. Like Titus said, the Germans have had all the warning in the world. That’s all this is, a cock-swinging contest. They’ve got theirs out, now we’ll get ours out.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ Rufus interceded.

  ‘We get ours out,’ Stumps continued, miming the action. ‘They see it’s bigger than theirs, and everyone goes home happy.’

  ‘You ever thought of running for the Senate?’ Titus asked his comrade, before getting to his feet. ‘I’m off to see Pavo.’

  ‘Why?’ several voices asked at once.

  Titus answered by tossing a pair of dice into the air. ‘He got paid too, you know? If I don’t take it, some other bastard might.’

  He was about to step out of the tent, but stopped, eyes on the two young soldiers who were polishing his armour. ‘You can leave off that tonight, boys. Where we’re going, doesn’t pay to stand out. Get yourself into town. Here.’ He reached inside his purse and tossed a coin to each of them. ‘Get a whore on me.’

  The youngsters smiled coyly, unsure of how to react to the sudden generosity.

  ‘Could be the last chance you ever have to get your dick wet,’ Titus told them as he left. The boys’ smiles slid off their faces.

  The section commander’s exit began the usual exodus: Rufus to his family; Stumps, Chickenhead and Moonface to the Three Bears.

  ‘You could buy an army of whores with that money you took out,’ Stumps informed me.

  ‘I’m just going to stay here,’ I told him, not that he gave a shit.

  ‘Fine. Play with yourself then, you tight bastard,’ he snapped as a farewell.

  Now that the veterans had departed, Micon and Cnaeus talked in hushed tones, obviously discussing what they were going to do.

  ‘Go to town,’ I told them a little irritably, sick of the whispers. ‘Titus is right. You could be dead soon. Go and get drunk, get laid, but do something.’

  They did, and I was at last alone. I was hoping that Chickenhead would have left Lupus behind, but evidently the kitten had been invited to the Three Bears along with the veterans, and so I had nothing to do but think, and contemplate the coming campaign.

  We were going north and, unlike Stumps, I did not believe the Germans would simply be content to look at our cocks, as he had put it. No, they would contest our presence, not in battle, but with hit-and-run attacks. Our army would lose a few dozen men, a hundred at most, and Varus could say that he’d persecuted his enemy and achieved his goals. As governor, he was first and foremost a politician, and, like all politicians, he knew how to weave the strands of defeat and failure and turn them into a cloak of personal victory.

  My own victory would be coming soon, I knew. When the army hit its northernmost destination, then I would slip away, and continue my own journey. Fortune had been kind, and I was sure that the money I had received that day would pay for my conveyance across the sea, and to the land of the Britons.

  The thought of that land gave me a rising sense of hope, but also one of trepidation. I had never set foot on those lands. From long conversations in my childhood I had a grasp of the language, but how many years had it been since those harsh words had left my tongue? I would be as much a stranger there as I was here, with nothing but a name to give me hope of sanctuary.

  Still, it was my best chance – my only chance – of salvaging something from a life that had begun with such promise, before my naivety and optimism had been ground to dust beneath the heel of Rome’s legions.

  And yet, something Chickenhead said to me had struck a blow. He couldn’t know of my plans – no one did – but maybe he could see enough to recognize a man on the run.

  It was with this thought in mind that I decided I must seek out familiar companions, and inspiration. With luck, those comrades were here within the fort. I had seen them that day, taking pride of place on the parade square.

  And so I went to talk with the eagles.

  16

  The three legions’ standards were set back in an alcove on the fringe of the parade square, the silver eagles brought to shimmering life by the candlelight. The parade square itself was seemingly deserted, but I knew that there would be guards in the shadows – soldiers drawn from each of the legion’s first cohorts, the body of men that carried the sigils into battle.

  On the hallowed ground of the alcove, a handful of legionaries knelt before the totems that embodied the spirits of their legions, past, present and future. The standards were a symbol that, no matter what befell these individual soldiers, their memory would live on through the legion.

  It was bullshit, I told myself. Absolute bullshit. And yet I had come here. I had been drawn here. I needed to see the standards. To touch them. Why?

  I reached out.

  ‘Evening, brother.’

  The words came from over my shoulder, and though they were spoken as a greeting, there was a force and order behind them, my hand dropping involuntarily to my side.

  I turned, and formally greeted the man who had spoken. ‘Standard-bearer.’

  The peak of his bearskin cloak cast his face into deep shadow. Beneath the darkness, his jaw was angular, nicked with scars. Here was a warrior.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he allowed, seeing that I’d retracted my hand.

  With his permission I reached out, my fingers touching the silver, feeling the lines of the feathers, a work of master craftsmanship.

  ‘They’re cold,’ I said to myself.

  If he heard my words, he made no comment, mistaking my mask of loss as one of reverence.

  ‘Your devotion does you credit, brother, but paydays are rare, and in these last few years, battle even more so. Tonight is a night to be with comrades.’

  ‘I am,’ I breathed, tracing my finger along the crest.

&
nbsp; ‘What’s your name, brother?’

  ‘Felix,’ I told him, breaking my touch. The lie came more naturally now.

  ‘The lucky one.’ A thin smile appeared above the scarred jawline. ‘A good thing for a soldier.’

  ‘Better to be heroic,’ I offered, taking in the awards that were affixed to the man’s armour.

  He shook his head, the snout of his bearskin exaggerating the small motion. ‘Plenty of dead heroes. Better to be lucky.’

  Though they were hidden from me, I knew from the tone of the man’s words that his eyes would be as dead as my own. He left then, perhaps uncomfortable at allowing even the smallest of insights into an armoured mind.

  I listened to the tread of his sandals as he disappeared into shadow. His duty was to these standards, and to his legion. While the other soldiers were drinking and whoring, laughing and arguing with comrades, he would stand sentinel, unaided, over the legion’s soul. It was the greatest irony of the legion – the man who held the eagle lived apart, fought single-handedly, and died alone. Despite his obvious courage and heroism, I pitied him.

  I turned back to the eagles.

  I have no idea how long I stood there, picturing standards held above the bloodshed of battlefields a continent away. Long enough that the praying soldiers had left, and I was alone with the watchers in the shadows.

  At first, so deep was I in the past that I thought the sound of struggle was nothing but a vivid memory.

  I was wrong.

  They brought him across the square in chains, a silent hooded figure dragged by a mob of a dozen burly Germans. At their head was a chieftain, identifiable by the thick golden torque hanging across a chest that could have been carved from oak. The only noise came from the tramp of their boots; the men’s lips were sealed, twisted into looks of grim determination.

  My hand went to the dagger on my belt, but a voice beside me willed me to be still.

  ‘Steady, brother.’

  The standard-bearer. Closer now, I saw his eyes for the first time. A killer’s eyes, focused yet lifeless.