Piso felt helpless, frustrated. He could do nothing for the soldier but pray, same as he had for every other poor bastard he’d come across. As if that did any good. With clenched jaw, he moved on. ‘Saxa?’ he called.
‘Halt!’ Despite his strident tone, the surgeon confronting Piso looked fit to drop. His sallow face had a waxen hue, and deep bags were carved out beneath his eyes. Plentiful blood spatters had rendered his tunic red instead of cream. Similar stains marked both his arms to the elbow. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘I’m looking for a comrade, sir.’
Seeing Piso’s wine bag, the surgeon sniffed. ‘You’re planning to ply him with drink.’
Too late, Piso tried to conceal what he was carrying. He pulled what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘You have me, sir. My friend was wounded earlier. I thought a drop of this would warm him up.’
‘This is a hospital, not a tavern,’ retorted the surgeon, pointing at the entrance. ‘Out. Your friend can find you when he’s discharged.’
‘I’ll only stay a few moments, sir.’
‘That’s what they all say. Half a watch later, my orderlies have to eject them, leaving my patients drunk as noble youths the day they take the toga. Out.’
‘I was in the Eighteenth, sir. So was my mate,’ said Piso, throwing caution to the wind. ‘I took an oath after the ambush never to leave another comrade without giving him a taste of wine first.’
The surgeon frowned. ‘We’re not abandoning anyone.’
‘I know we’re not, sir, but …’ Piso didn’t want to suggest what might happen in the next few days. It felt like tempting the Fates, and they were fickle Greek bitches at the best of times.
The surgeon moved aside with a sigh. ‘Be quick. He can have a few mouthfuls of wine, and that’s it.’
‘My thanks, sir.’ Before the surgeon could change his mind, Piso darted around him and resumed his walk between the lines of wounded men. Saxa was lying twenty paces further on, his injured arm wrapped in a clean piece of ripped tunic. He seemed to be asleep. Piso nudged his leg. ‘Thirsty?’
Saxa twitched and woke, then focused on Piso. A smile split his face. ‘How did you get in? The surgeon is as crusty as an old whore’ s-’
‘Shhhh,’ hissed Piso, aware that the surgeon was close by. ‘He’s not too bad. Even said I could stay for a bit. You’re allowed some of this.’ He swung the bag down off his shoulder and unstoppered it.
‘You’re a marvel. Give that here!’ Saxa reached out with his good hand. Piso held the bottom of the bag and tipped it up so his friend could drink. Saxa’s throat worked as he swallowed two, three big mouthfuls. ‘Gods, that’s good,’ he said, pulling away at last.
Piso was watching the surgeon, and held it up, out of reach. ‘Maybe that’s enough.’
‘Balls. Give it back!’ Saxa relented when Piso indicated the surgeon with a jerk of his head. Saxa lay back on his blanket. ‘That was good. Gratitude, brother.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘My arm aches, but then a fucking spear went through it, and it’s been sluiced with acetum. The surgeon says I’ll be back to light duties within the month. Full duty within two. That is, if …’ Saxa stopped. ‘How are things out there?’
‘Fine,’ lied Piso. ‘You don’t need to hide anything from me,’ said Saxa, scowling. ‘Is it bad?’
‘Not as bad as the first day with Varus,’ said Piso in a low tone. ‘We’ve lost four or five hundred men.’
‘May their shades not linger in this shithole. Did we kill many Germans?’
Piso spat the words out. ‘A hundred, they say, maybe more.’
Saxa swore again. ‘Tell me that a decent stretch of road got repaired at least.’
‘A mile.’
‘That’s it?’ Heads turned at Saxa’s cry, including the surgeon’s – who gave them both a disapproving look.
‘We’ll fare better tomorrow,’ said Piso, offering the bag. ‘Have a last swig. I’ll end up on a charge if I stay any longer.’
Saxa drank like a newborn baby on its mother’s breast. He relinquished the wine bag with reluctance.
‘You will sleep well tonight.’
Saxa lifted a clay jug that had been lying by his side, and winked. ‘I can even piss without going out in the rain.’
‘Trust you to have every comfort arranged!’ said Piso with a chuckle. He gripped his friend’s good hand. ‘I’ll see you again tomorrow evening.’
‘You gathering timber or road-building?’
‘Working on the road, Tullus says.’
‘Were there many attacks there today?’
‘A lot, aye.’
Saxa’s face grew sombre. ‘Stay alive.’
‘I will. You too.’ They clasped hands again, hard.
As Piso walked away, he did not look back.
Piso wandered towards his century’s tent positions in a foul mood. His pleasure at seeing his friend had been soured by their last exchange. Saxa shared his concern that the enemy’s attacks would intensify, and that casualties would mount even further. The same doom couldn’t befall us again, Piso thought. Could it? He was unable to shake off the gnawing worry that Arminius was about to repeat his success of six years before. Old, terrible memories returned: the shock of the first German attack, the miles of corpse-filled mud, and the terrified wails of the civilians left in their camp. Piso blinked them away, cursing, and began swigging his wine. There was just enough in the bag to give him dreamless sleep, he decided.
Laughter carried from a nearby tent. ‘Got you, Benignus!’ said a voice. ‘Pay up.’
A muttered protest was drowned out by a chorus of voices. ‘Aemilius won, you dog!’ ‘Give the man his money.’ ‘Fair’s fair, Benignus. You lost.’
Piso hesitated, and his fingers traced the outline of his two pairs of dice, secure in his purse. A few games would be just the thing to make his worries disappear. If he won some coin, even better. Slapping his hand off the tent’s wet leather, he cried, ‘Ho, brothers! Have you space for another gambler?’
After a short silence, a voice said, ‘I don’t see why not.’
Piso waited as someone unlaced the flaps. Fortuna, be good to me, he prayed.
‘There.’ A wiry legionary was profiled in the dim light cast by the oil lamps within. ‘Enter, friend.’
‘My thanks.’ Piso squeezed inside after his host. The tent’s warm interior was confining, as his own was. Eight men and their equipment filled it from side wall to side wall and end to end. Weapons and segmented armour were piled by the entrance, but the soldiers with mail shirts had kept theirs on. No one had taken their sandals off. ‘You’re ready for a fight,’ Piso observed.
‘Our centurion insisted. He’d have had us wear our plate too, except it’s impossible to sleep in,’ grumbled the wiry man who’d let him in. ‘Prick.’
Piso swallowed his compliment about their readiness. ‘All centurions are hard taskmasters.’
‘Yours is the same, no doubt. Find a seat. I’m Aemilius, by the way. Second Century, Eighth Cohort.’ The wiry man eased down beside a big soldier with bad pox scars. ‘This prick’s Benignus. He’s down to his last few coins.’
‘Nothing new about that,’ sneered one of the four men opposite, a thin-faced individual with a hook nose. ‘I’m Gaius.’
‘But you can call him Beaky,’ said his neighbour, a man with a short, bristling beard.
Beaky gave him an elbow in the ribs. ‘Shut up, Pubes.’
Piso hid his amusement at Pubes’ apt nickname. It was a wonder no one had ever thought to use the same one for Fenestela. ‘Piso, they call me. I’m in the First Century of the Seventh.’ He sat down beside Beaky, opposite Aemilius. As the other four legionaries introduced themselves, Aemilius leaned over and shook Piso’s wine bag. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Aye.’ Knowing it would be drained, Piso took a big slug before he handed it over. The bag passed from man to man, with constant complaints from those at the tent’s far end about how much was being drunk.