True, I had disliked Statius and his malingering, but he didn’t deserve to die for that spinelessness. I did not want to be like the legions, sentencing to death men who had seen sensible reason to keep their blades sheathed. The punishment was unjust, but once Statius’s heart had stopped beating, his body had become mere flesh, and nothing more. There was no way to turn back time. Brando, my friend and comrade, had then become my only concern. It was for him that I had played a willing part in the gruesome cover-up, and for him that I suffered the shame in the eyes of Centurion H, a man I admired.
After that night, I realized that my mind was becoming as hardened as the chain mail that hung over my shoulders. A war was being fought inside my head, and the darkness had taken the advantage. In a way, it seemed almost a blessing – my nightmares were becoming less frequent. The death of Statius was now an afterthought in my own life, and in that of the fort’s – a murder attributed to the Syrian archers.
The fallout of that revelation had been predictable enough. Fortunately, as it was assumed that Statius had gone looking for revenge for his ‘wound’, Prefect Caedicius had not been proactive in his search for a scapegoat. If anything, he used the Roman’s death as an example of why the men and civilians under his command should remain within the boundaries that he had drawn up. It came as no surprise to find that Statius had been short on friends, and no acts of vengeance were carried out in his name. I was almost coming to believe that the death was free of consequences, when a grim-faced Brando rushed into the alleyways of the civilian encampment.
He found me with Linza. I was scrubbing my mail, and smiling. Smiling until I saw the look on my comrade’s face, and I knew that tragedy had come with him.
‘What?’ was all I asked. Beside me, I felt Linza stiffen.
‘Balbus. The corruption has spread up his arm. The surgeon’s amputating now.’
I dropped my mail and ran with him, Linza left behind in our hurried wake. As my sandals beat the cold dirt, my stomach churned – I knew what this was. This was our punishment. This was justice for our butchery of a comrade.
‘This is because of me,’ Brando breathed, thinking the same.
‘The corruption was there before… that,’ I tried to console the Batavian, and myself.
‘No, Felix.’ Brando was adamant. ‘This is the gods. This is it. The beginning of their punishment. I should have died like a man, Felix. Now… now this…’ His voice trailed off.
We reached the hospital. Balbus’s screams rang out from within.
They were terrible.
‘Wait in the barracks,’ I told my comrade.
He shook his head. ‘I wait here.’
We stood in silence. A breathless Stumps and Micon arrived soon after.
‘Should we go in?’ Stumps asked, wincing at the sound of the screams.
I shook my head. ‘Let the surgeons work.’
‘This is—’ Stumps began quietly.
‘I know,’ I snapped. ‘Enough.’
And so we waited, each one of us stumbling over doubts and accusations and thoughts of divine justice. I had never seen Brando shaken, but now there was a tremor in his hands and jaw.
It seemed like an eternity, but eventually the screams died away. I hoped that Balbus’s life had not gone with them.
‘You his mates?’ a bloodied surgeon’s assistant asked us as he emerged for air.
‘His section,’ Stumps answered. It was a good answer. We all sensed that Balbus was a good man, but we had not lived and breathed beside him long enough for him to become family.
‘He’s alive,’ the man told us, with no trace of happiness at that fact. ‘Bled a lot, though. Prepare yourselves for the worst.’ He shrugged as he ducked back inside the building.
‘Not a word,’ I told the men, seeing Stumps and Brando on the verge of self-reproach and recrimination. ‘Not a word,’ I forced again. ‘We wait.’
And so we did.
The night had long settled before a slave appeared from the hospital and summoned our huddled figures inside.
The copper tang of blood hit my nostrils as we were led into the candlelit building. We passed the open door of an operating room and saw a slave on his knees, scrubbing away what must have been the blood of our comrade.
‘In here.’ The first slave gestured, and we entered an open ward of beds. Only two were occupied. Standing next to Balbus was a man whose once red hair was losing the fight with white. He introduced himself as Balbus’s surgeon. Though not unfriendly, the man’s tone was clipped and dispassionate, a necessity of his profession.
‘He won’t make the morning.’ The surgeon confirmed what I already knew. One look at Balbus had been enough to tell me that the soldier was on death’s door. His skin was grey and waxen, like tent canvas. Despite the thick blankets about him, he looked cold to the touch.
‘Lost too much blood in the operation,’ the surgeon explained. ‘Had to take the whole arm. There’re not many who come through from that.’
It was Micon who spoke. ‘Thank you for trying, sir. We know you did your best.’
The surgeon gave a curt nod. ‘Stay as long as you like.’
I watched the man leave. Then I felt Brando’s eyes on me.
‘This isn’t our fault,’ I said to him as he placed his hand on Balbus’s shoulder.
But the Batavian ignored my words. ‘I’m sorry, Balbus. This is my fault. I’m sorry.’
‘Is there nothing we can do?’ Micon ventured.
‘Sure. Donate him your arm,’ Stumps lashed out, regretting the insult instantly. ‘Sorry, Micon.’
The youngster shrugged. ‘It’s all right.’
‘What do we do?’ Stumps asked me then. ‘He must have other mates here? He was Nineteenth Legion a long time. They’ll want to see him off, won’t they? He’s a good bloke.’
He was right. ‘Half the garrison’s on the walls,’ I answered, ‘the other half’s asleep. The centurions will have runners posted at their quarters, though. Try them. It’s the least we can do for him.’
‘All right,’ Stumps agreed, turning to Micon. ‘You come with me.’
‘You too, Brando,’ I told the crouched figure.
‘I want to stay with him,’ the man protested. ‘This is my fault.’
‘Go and get his friends,’ I said. There was no room for argument in my tone, and not long after my friends had departed did the reason for that forcefulness walk into the ward.
‘Sir,’ I greeted Centurion H.
‘Felix.’ Framed by candlelight, I saw nothing but sorrow and dread in his features. Hard to believe this was the man who had worn his humour so openly.
‘I sent the others away,’ I explained. ‘I thought you’d come here.’
‘Balbus was – is – still one of mine,’ H agreed, coming to stand beside the bed and looking down at the unconscious soldier. ‘Was one of mine when he was hurt, anyway. Can you believe a splinter did this to him?’ There was as much wonder as grief in his voice. ‘A fucking splinter, and a good man’s life is over.’
‘There’s no reason in death, sir,’ I offered, having spent years searching for it. If I was honest with myself, I was still looking.
‘Maybe it’s a blessing.’ H seemed to be trying to convince himself. ‘I just came from a briefing with the prefect. Rations are to be cut again from tomorrow. I’d actually forgotten I had ribs.’ The man attempted to smile.
I liked this officer. Shame burned me for what I had done in his sight, and the desire for his approval pushed me to speak. ‘Better hungry stomachs than the Germans, sir,’ I said, and that was true – cavalry scouts aside, there had been no sighting of a body of enemy troops for weeks. Neither had there been any sight, or even word, of our own.