37
The dry leaves pushed against my face as I edged my way through the copse. Flickering light danced in the distance; the sound of German voices was clear in the still night.
My throat tightened. Nothing about this raid was aligning in our favour. Our last assault had been unexpected, cloaked by heavy rain and wind. Tonight the land was tranquil, the enemy alert. Malchus had reconnoitred the enemy camp, finding no soft underbelly. We were now in the trees because it offered the best chance at concealment, and perhaps a few seconds’ surprise. There had been no talk of abandoning the mission, and when the archers had been left in position to cover our extraction, the faces around me had been grim and sullen beneath the half-moonlight. It was not the place for words, but men clasped hands and squeezed their friends’ shoulders, the comradely gestures an acknowledgment that some of us would not live through the night.
I looked at my own section. They crept beside me through the foliage, lifting feet high to avoid rustling the leaves that had fallen with the approach of winter. Even amongst the trees I could make out their wide eyes in faces darkened by dirt. So familiar were we after hours of nocturnal duty that I could pick out each man by his silhouette. I noticed Brando and Folcher at the fore, the Batavians eager to strike and spill blood.
At our rear was Statius. This was to be his first real taste of combat. He seemed loath to meet it, but who could fault him for that? Likely he was the sanest soldier in the section.
I forced the thought away. Now was the time to think of nothing but the most basic of instincts, and stealth: the placement of sandalled and swathed feet; penetrating looks into darkness; filtering the sounds of danger from a backdrop of nature. Forests are a noisy place, if you stop and listen, but an expert ear would hear death approaching above the creaking of old branches and the taunting crackle of dying leaves.
A hand signal to halt passed down the line. Eventually, the loose formation of soldiers came to a halt. I went on to one knee, the bone pressing into dirt still wet from earlier rains. I swallowed fear, knowing that soon the earth would be enriched. I could only mutter an oath that my men would not be the ones to fertilize the German woodland.
I looked through the last few yards of trees, my vision blocked partly by the tangle of bushes. I swore to myself, knowing that these would hinder my progress when the command to attack came, and I would be forced to run the hundred yards to where the first tents of the enemy’s camp were pitched. Constant roving patrols of German tribesmen rendered stealth impossible once the trees were cleared, and so Malchus had issued orders that were as brutal and simple as his manner.
‘Stay in your sections and sprint to the tents. Put your blade into someone – man, woman or child. When you hear the whistle, move back to the rally point on the other side of the trees.’
Malchus was no coward, and for him to issue orders for killing with such economy, I knew that he feared the futility of this mission as much as I did. We were a tiny force attempting to assault an army of thousands. They were alert, and would fall on our attack like a landslide. Every inch of my experience told me that this was an act of stupidity, and lethal. It told Malchus the same. Maybe even dim-witted Micon could see it.
But what did it matter? We were soldiers, and the command had been given. We would not be the first to charge forward with doubt about our orders in our minds. We would not be the last.
‘Let’s go,’ I heard whispered from the darkness, then the wraith-like figures uncoiled from the forest floor.
‘Stay together,’ I urged my own men, hoping that I had suppressed the fear in my voice.
Within a moment I reached the bramble bushes at the forest’s edge, the barbs snagging and tugging at my tunic, ripping at my skin. I pushed through, hearing other men curse beneath their breath as the vines gripped their shins like attention-starved children.
‘Get through,’ I urged, my voice higher now that the adrenaline was coming. ‘Get through,’ I said again, clearing the last of the bushes and stepping out beyond the trees’ reach.
The German camp was clear ahead of me now, braziers throwing warm light against the canvas of dozens of tents. Glancing left and right, I saw the black figures of ghosts racing across the open ground, their footfalls padded, breaths rapid.
I looked over my shoulder. Enough of my section’s silhouettes had made it through the natural barricade. We were falling behind the others. It was time.
I ran. Like every other idiot in the raiding party, I pushed away my reservations and rational thought, and instead sprinted headlong at an enemy encampment where I knew that death awaited me.
Why did I do this?
For Rome, the city I had never seen? For the Emperor, a man who had wrested power and kept it through violence and civil war? For glory? What was that? Something celebrated by people who had never experienced the cost of buying it.
No. None of that. I sprinted towards the enemy and death because, if I did not reach it first, then one of my men might, and if they died I would be racked with shame, guilt and sorrow. I charged at the enemy because my comrades did. They charged at the enemy because I did. If one of us had pulled out, then perhaps we all would have done, but the army relies on pride and the bonds of brotherhood to drive soldiers into the jaws of death, and so we ran willingly towards our fate.
We were almost at the tents when the first cries of alarm rang out. There was no need for Brando and Folcher to translate the words, and I knew that the enemy would now be rousing and rallying to meet our attack with their own counter. Our lives were now measured in seconds. We had entered death’s domain, and to climb out we would need to kill.
‘Into the tents!’ I ordered my men, all need for stealth gone now as we finally crossed the open ground. I ran with Folcher and Brando to the closest canvas, Folcher stepping forward to pull back the flap so that we could charge inside and butcher the occupants. Instead, in a split second of spurting blood and a gargled cry of pain, Folcher stumbled back from the tent’s opening with a spear-point in his throat.
‘Folcher!’ Brando cried, reaching for his friend, all thoughts of attack forgotten as Folcher crashed on to his back.
Three Germans burst from their tent in the same moment. Half-dressed and unarmoured, the seconds of warning had been enough for them to pick up weapons and shields. Now, the trio of bearded warriors came at me as a howling pack.
If I had an advantage, it was that my muscles were already loose and my eyes adjusted to the darkness. An inch marks the divide between life and death in battle, and I was able to step out of the arc of a swinging blade, lunging to my right and driving my javelin into a thigh. The man went down but he took my weapon with him, and so I was still pulling my short sword free of its sheath when the other two came at me, roaring threats and murder.
Brando fell on to their exposed backs like a violent landslide. He held no weapon, instead grabbing fistfuls of hair as he bit at the men’s faces and plunged a thumb into a German eye. That warrior cried in agony as Brando pushed it in deeper and deeper, and the Batavian’s teeth sank into the flesh of a cheek. Brando’s rage had consumed him, and it was almost a look of relief that passed over the second German’s face as I drove my freed blade into his heart, and saved him the savage fate that had befallen his partner. By the time that Brando backed away, the dead German at his feet was as mauled as a bear’s victim in the arena.
I moved past my comrade, desperate to seek out the rest of the section. Free of my own immediate life-or-death struggle, I now became aware of the shouts and screams that were ringing out around us, and, above it all, a whistle.