‘Why can’t we just bury them in the ditch?’ Statius grumbled.
‘Because it wouldn’t be a ditch then, would it, you dickhead?’ Stumps snapped.
‘Lu-lu-look at this one.’ Balbus pointed; an arrow had gone through an eye and clean out the back of the tribesman’s skull. Like the other corpses around him, the German’s skin was sagging and patterned with decomposition.
‘I feel desensitized to this smell,’ Stumps grunted as he lifted the dead arms of a stick-thin German boy. ‘Thank you, Dog. I didn’t realize what a service your arse-breath was doing for the legions.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Dog smiled, Stumps’s insults washing over him.
It was unpleasant work: rancid gas escaped from dead lungs; rotten limbs tore from their sockets; insects and larvae crawled and wriggled inside wounds and eye sockets emptied by crows.
The same jokes crept up, those spoken on battlefields the world over: ‘he’s ’armless’, ‘he’s legless’, ‘he got the point’, ‘he lost his head’. The humour was cruel, dark and necessary. As the graft wore on, some soldiers lost their breakfast, but none seemed to lose their mind.
One German tried to change that.
Statius squealed like a pig and jumped back from the corpse he had been reaching for. ‘Fuck! He fucking moved!’
‘You’re a soft cunt.’ Stumps smirked. ‘It’s just air leaving him. You never seen a body before—Fuck me, he moved!’
I joined the veteran and we gazed down into a grey face. Lack of beard made me think that the corpse was young, but the skin was drained of life.
Not so his eyes – they moved. They were looking at us.
The lips twitched.
‘Fuck,’ Stumps whispered again. ‘He’s alive.’
I looked the boy over. He had a hand on a stomach pierced deep by an arrow. Maggots crawled over his tunic.
I fought hard not to throw up. Statius reached the same conclusion as I had, and lost his own battle.
‘He’s been eating those to stay alive?’ he asked me, hoping that I would tell him otherwise.
The boy’s blue eyes burned into mine. He yearned for life. He had done unspeakable things to cling on to it.
I drew my dagger, and ended his hope there. I could not meet the eyes as the blood drained from him.
No one made jokes after that.
28
I was lying in my barrack room. The air was warm, a gentle breeze creeping through the window. I was looking at the ceiling, my eyes following a fly as it crawled and hopped on the concrete. It was trapped, unable to navigate, unable to work out the simple puzzle of the open window. The concrete was barren, and the fly would toil against its surface until it expired.
I had been watching it for hours.
Initially I had begun by cheering it, rooting for its freedom. The window was there, so close, fully open! Go!
Then, as time wore on, I began to resent the fly. I began to hate it. How could a creature be so stupid? How could it not see the opportunity? How—
I smelt smoke. Not the ever-present camp smells of cooking, but the thick noxious type that came from burning timber and plaster.
‘Stand to! Stand to!’ someone shouted from outside.
Then came the screams—
I shot up in my bed, panting, sweat turning instantly cold against my skin.
‘Stand to!’ the voice called. ‘Stand to!’
‘Stand to!’ I echoed automatically.
In the darkness, my men repeated the order, some with enthusiasm, some still half-deep in slumber.
‘Get your kit on! Form up outside!’
With practised motions I began to pull on my arms and armour. The movements were as automatic as breathing, and so I let my mind go to the possibilities of the stand-to: fire? Enemy at the walls? Enemy inside of them?
As I entered the night outside the block I saw the other sections spilling into the torchlight, centurion and optio marshalling the men into formation.
‘Section commanders, report in when you’re complete!’ H ordered.
‘Seven Section complete,’ I shouted a few moments later, my men still pulling at straps as they trotted into formation.
Over the sound of shuffling feet and chinking chain mail I listened for the signs of battle. I heard shouting from within the fort. Shouting, but no screams.
‘Century, right turn!’ H commanded. ‘By the centre, double march!’
We took off at a slow run, H in the lead, the only man who seemed to know our destination and purpose.
‘What’s going on?’ Statius asked no one in particular.
Stumps sneered. ‘What the fuck do you think’s going on? We’re going to get stuck into a shit show.’
‘What kind?’ Statius asked, undeterred.
‘Hopefully the kind that gets you killed, so you can stop wasting my time with stupid fucking questions.’
A century in full battle dress doesn’t move quietly when it runs. Metal banged against metal; shield against shield; hobnails tramped the dirt; and breath escaped loudly from the lungs of men confined within walls. Even so, it was possible to hear the sound of the shouts growing louder. Angry voices, and a lot of them.
Balbus spoke up. ‘So-so-sounds like a riot.’
He was right.
‘Century, halt!’ H called. ‘Move from column to line!’
The head of the century wheeled to its right, the tail of the unit following like a snake so that the width of our body now faced forwards, and gave me my first look at what was ahead of us.
A barrack block of the Syrian archers was under siege. Scanning quickly, I guessed that no fewer than three hundred civilians had surrounded it. They threw stones and insults at the windows set in the wooden walls, cursing the men who had taken refuge within.
‘Look over there,’ Stumps said to me.
I followed his eyes. There was a body in the dirt, now a plaything for young boys, who poked at the dark-skinned man with nervous curiosity.
‘Looks like a Syrian,’ Brando noted.
Centurion H positioned himself at the front of his men. Elsewhere, other centuries were arriving in formation. The people who had surrounded the archers were now surrounded themselves, save for one road that led away into the fort. I expected that we were to be the sheep dogs that drove the civilians through that gate.
Two figures strode out from the ranks and towards the braying masses.
‘Silence,’ Malchus called on behalf of the fort’s commander. ‘Silence!’
The crowd would not oblige him. A few worried faces appeared in their rear ranks, but most were turned inwards, consumed by passionate fury.
Malchus had a remedy for this. ‘Centuries!’ he bellowed. ‘Ten paces forwards.’
We obeyed his command, tramping our feet heavily. More heads turned to face us.
Malchus carried no javelin, and so he drew his sword, and began to beat it against his shield. The men of the centuries picked up this rhythm, an unmistakable drum of war.
Now, all heads turned. Seeing the ranks of soldiers lit and shadowed by torches, anger faded from the civilian faces, and fear appeared in its place. They knew that if they were declared an enemy of the Roman peace, then they could die by our blades just like any other foe.
Malchus held up his hand for silence. He got it, save for the beating of a shield by a solitary soldier: Micon.
Stumps silenced him with a kick. ‘Enough, you idiot.’
Prefect Caedicius stepped forwards. ‘Return to your quarters. You are confined to the western side of the fort until further notice. Any of you found within a hundred yards of these barracks will be cast out of the gate, and you can take your own chances. Go!’
Individuals began to peel away at the command, but the host of the body shifted, uncertain. They had come for something, and were reluctant to leave without it.