It wasn’t long before Malchus had spoken with each man, and returned to the front of the formation.
‘We lost brothers tonight,’ he told us, without a hint of weakness in his voice. ‘We’ll lose more before this is all over. Being a soldier is about suffering, boys. It’s about these nights. What separates us from every other army in the world is what we do when we bleed. Others will run and hide from it. Not us. We’ll lick the blood from our blades, and we’ll go after these cunts again. We’ll go after them harder. We’ll go after them without mercy. By the time this war is over, every one of the Germans in that camp will be dead. Every one of their women will be raped. Every one of their children will be slaves. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the chorus of croaking voices.
‘Your centurion’s in the hospital, and your optio died with glory,’ Malchus went on. ‘We’ll restructure the century, but for now, go to your barrack rooms. Eat and sleep, but don’t you dare think about doing either until your kit is cleaned, and you’re ready to fight again, understood?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Good. Fall out.’
Walking back to the barrack block, I felt as though I were waist-deep in water and my legs were lead. Beside me, the men of my section moved like similar ghouls.
My section.
What was left of it? Brando, head on his chest, the Batavian grieving for his friend Folcher. Micon and Stumps were unhurt, at least in body. I suspected that the blood-free blade of Stumps was caused by an injury just as dangerous as any flesh wound. Balbus was already hospitalized with the corruption to his hand, and now Statius had joined him. Dog, a soldier I had liked but had never truly known, had died out of my sight from a German spear. Battle is a brutal blur, and it is fantasy to believe that a soldier witnesses the end of his comrades. As with Dog, the news of their end usually comes from a hushed comment, and sunken eyes.
‘Brando.’ I placed a hand on my friend’s shoulder. I hoped that in that word he would know how I grieved for him, and for Folcher. I hoped that my eyes were enough.
‘He was my best friend, Felix.’ Brando sighed, his big chest heaving. ‘My best friend, and I couldn’t bring him home. I left him in the trees.’
‘You did all you could.’
‘Do you know what they’ll do to his body?’ Brando asked me, exhausted.
We both did.
‘I should have carried him home.’ He meant to the besieged fort that we clung to like limpets to rocks.
‘And died yourself? Folcher wouldn’t have wanted that.’
The Batavian nodded at the truth in my words. ‘But it doesn’t make it easier, does it?’
We cleaned our equipment in silence. Linza came and went to bring bowls of hot water, barley and soup. She spoke to Brando in their native tongue, and I knew that the language was a comfort to him. A tie to the comrade he had lost.
I expected Titus to arrive and to squeeze the life from his oldest living friend. I was wrong; his business partner Plancus hobbled into the room in his place.
‘Titus has to reissue equipment and organize the funeral rites,’ the old veteran informed us. ‘Two of the wounded died under the surgeon.’
‘Was one called Statius?’ I asked.
‘Doesn’t sound familiar. Anyway, he said he’ll come see you when he can.’
Then, equipment cleaned, and exhausted by exertion and grief, we fell back on to our bunks. At first I thought it was a dream when I felt the woman’s presence beside me, her arm over my shoulder, but then I saw blue eyes beneath strands of blond hair.
‘Sleep,’ Linza told me.
I closed my eyes.
42
When I woke, Linza had gone.
Daylight lit the room, but Brando and Micon snored on. Stumps fidgeted fitfully in a sleep that I was certain was full of bloodshed.
In search of water, I stepped outside of the barrack block. The fort was eerily quiet. The sight of the ravaged century had sent a shock of fear throughout the place. Arminius had pulled his troops from under the walls’ gaze and, out of sight, they had been out of mind for many of the fort’s occupants. There could be no such blissful ignorance now. Not whilst graves were being dug. Not whilst the unsanctioned families of the soldiery wailed over the loss of their loved ones.
I caught the eye of a veteran of my own century. A survivor, like myself. I had no idea of his name, but what did it matter? In many ways, this stranger was closer to me than the family I had been born into.
‘Hard to sleep, isn’t it?’ the veteran offered.
‘Thirsty,’ I told him.
‘I’ve got wine?’
And so, moments later, we sat in the shelter of the wall’s lee. We didn’t talk, not even to ask each other’s names. We simply drank, slowly, comforted that we were not the only creature to be suffering. We sat there until a knot of soldiers approached, bandaged and grim. Centurion H was at the head of them.
‘It’s good to see you, sir,’ I told the man honestly. His smile was gone. Instead, H’s lips were drawn into a grimace. Half his century had not returned, and this was not the kind of officer who looked for glory or opportunity in that loss. His clouded eyes told me as much.
‘Your man Statius is still in the hospital,’ the centurion informed me. ‘Balbus, too. His corruption’s getting worse. I don’t know when you’ll get him back. To be honest, Felix, I don’t know if there’s a century any more. I expect that we’ll be split up amongst the others,’ he concluded sadly.
I noticed a red stain that was spreading through the centurion’s linen bandage. ‘I don’t want to overstep, sir,’ I offered, ‘but shouldn’t you be in the hospital, too?’
H slowly shook his head, and then looked at the men around us. They took his hint, and left.
‘I’m telling you this because, after all you’ve been through, you deserve to hear it. Last night was a disaster, Felix, nothing less. We can’t afford to take losses like that, which means no more raids. No more proactive patrols, or attacks. We’re going to sit here in this fort until we’re rescued, or until we starve.’
‘Are supplies that low?’
‘They will be. German winter’s harsh. Have you seen many cats and dogs around recently? People are preparing already. Everyone’s about to go hungry. That’s why the prefect’s ordered that we release the prisoners we captured last week.’
‘Release them?’ I asked, surprised at the mercy.
The centurion shrugged. ‘Better they eat the enemy’s rations than ours.’
I understood that logic well enough, but the clemency confused me. Why not kill them, and let them feed the crows? Dead men didn’t eat.
H read my thoughts. ‘It’s not as simple as that, Felix.’ The man shook his head. ‘We’re taking a burden of hungry mouths from us and putting them on to the goat-fuckers.’
I licked nervously at my cracked lips, knowing what was coming next. ‘But we’re not about to hand them soldiers, are we?’ I asked.
H met my own dark eyes. ‘Caedicius wants to take their hands, Felix,’ he confided in me, spitting at the dirt. ‘And he wants what’s left of our century to be the butchers.’
We formed up in full battle dress and marched to the centre of the camp and its parade square. The ranks were silent and sullen, men grieving over the loss of their comrades from the raid not yet a day old. It was this grief that Prefect Caedicius and Centurion Malchus hoped to tap into. The opportunity to give men who had been beaten – for what else was the botched raid but an abject failure? – the chance to strike back at the faces of their enemy. To draw blood, and bring forth screams. To avenge the comrades that they had left behind.