I sought out the crest of Centurion Malchus. He found me first. He was inconspicuous in his dress – a simple tunic. His weapons were sheathed in the scabbards on his crossed belts, his skin darkened with dirt. All about us, the men of the raiding party followed his example.
Brando spoke up quickly. ‘Sir, I beg that we may volunteer for the raid? We speak German, sir. We can help.’
Remembering our earlier conversation about my comrades’ capabilities, Malchus turned his grey eyes to me. Set back in his darkened face, they made for a formidable sight. I met his look, and gave the slightest shake of my head.
‘Just you,’ Malchus ordered Brando, sending Folcher’s shoulders slouching with disappointment. ‘You’ll stay next to me at all times, you understand? Send your armour back with your friend.’
Brando obeyed quickly, stripping out of his mail with the help of his comrade. Then the two Batavians embraced, exchanging words in their native language. Stooped with frustration and worry for his friend, Folcher slumped away in the direction of the barracks.
‘Did you hear about the parade this afternoon?’ Malchus asked me.
‘I did, sir.’
‘He’s trying to rattle us. Keep a cool head,’ he warned, apparently still convinced that I yearned for battle. Given the evidence of my life, perhaps he was right. Perhaps he saw something that I did not, or at least that I refused to acknowledge.
‘You.’ Malchus addressed Brando. ‘What’s German for goat-fucker?’
Brando told him, and the centurion laughed. On the eve of danger, he seemed serene in his happiness. ‘Stay here. I’ll find you when it’s time.’
Silence held between myself and Brando. Elsewhere there was the hushed sound of talk between comrades. The nervous laugh; the whispered promise; the most mundane conversation, offered as distraction from the inevitable.
‘Soup, sir?’ a voice asked from the darkness. He was an older man with crumpled skin. His Latin was clear, but accented. A slave.
‘Thank you,’ I answered, taking the broth and observing the man.
As a Roman citizen I had spent my life surrounded by slaves. They had cooked my meals, cleaned my home and died for my family’s entertainment in the arena. But never had I seen them as I did now, following my own captivity, however brief it might have been.
‘Felix. I’d like some.’ Brando took the cup that I’d held on to as I daydreamed.
Brando took a deep mouthful and then passed the cup back to the slave, who slipped away into the darkness. I thought about him as we awaited the order to creep away ourselves: where had he come from? Who had he been? What were his dreams, before slavery had taken him? How did he feel serving men who enjoyed rights and freedoms that were denied him? How did he do it with a smile on his face? And why had he not escaped, or died trying?
‘Felix. It’s time,’ Brando told me, seeing Malchus’s towering silhouette approaching. I watched it, noting how the centurion paused to talk to each of his volunteers: cementing their confidence; pouring fuel on to men’s anger, or dousing it, whichever was required by their temperament. I had seen many leaders in war, and Malchus was proving himself to be amongst the more natural. Of course, the real test would come beyond the wall.
‘Let’s go,’ he ordered, and I followed to where ropes were being dropped into the darkness and men crowded and hushed on the fighting step, their eyes bright in blackened faces.
As guide, I took hold of the closest rope, and made to be the first down the wall. Malchus stepped forward and put his hand on mine; he would lead the way. Seconds later, he had been lost to the night.
I felt Brando’s presence on my shoulder.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked me.
‘Yes,’ I lied.
And then I took the rope in my hand, and crept down into the darkness.
15
The muscles of my shoulders ached as I slowly lowered myself down the face of the wall, feet padding gently against the facade to control my descent.
Malchus was already on the ground, his tall frame coiled like a serpent preparing to strike. I joined him as the black shapes of the raiding party began to descend the wall either side of us. We were using ropes for the security of the fort, so the gates could remain shut, but it would make the extraction of the wounded difficult, if not impossible, and so Malchus now gave me the same pragmatic advice as he had given his men.
‘If you’re hurt badly, just accept it and finish yourself off. We need every able-bodied man we can to defend the fort, and it’s not fair to get someone killed in a rescue attempt, just because a soldier can’t find the guts to do the right thing. Agreed?’
I could think of little to say, and so I simply nodded in the darkness.
‘We’ve seen what they do to our wounded, sir,’ Brando replied for the both of us.
‘Good man. Is that everybody down?’ Malchus whispered. ‘Form up in single file behind me. Not a sound from here. Felix, take us to the bastards.’
There was little point in hesitating, and so I moved off at a crouch across the flat field, pausing regularly to listen for the tell-tale clink of weapons and armour, or the suppressed word or cough from a loose mouth. Arminius’s forward picket line was set far back from the fort, and was not manned in strength; who expected the men within the fort’s walls to leave its promise of safety and sally out against an army that numbered in the thousands? Still, there was always the chance of encountering scouts, or men desperate to retrieve fallen or wounded friends. With my own eyes, I had even seen men risk death in the darkness to loot the bodies of their dead comrades. I did not doubt that there were such opportunists within Arminius’s ranks. Nor did I doubt that there would be Roman soldier, civilian and Syrian archer leaving the fort’s walls to plunder the bodies that filled the eastern wall’s ditch.
Pausing again, I slowly scanned from left to right, certain that I could now make out the black line of earth that marked the lip of one of the zigzag trenches. During my talk with Malchus he had asked whether I thought it viable to use the earthworks as a means to approach the enemy camp, but darkness gave us the cover and freedom that we needed. Confined in a trench, sound would be dampened. Sight would be limited. I had fought in siege works before, and there was no battle more horrid than that conducted beneath the soil.
I looked up to the sky. A high blanket of cloud continued to contain the moon. So much the better for us. The sixty men were silent except for the escape of breath, and the gentle splash of a piss that could no longer be held. Perhaps two hours passed as we inched our way across the field, considering every yard.
The enemy were not so concerned with concealment. As we drew closer, the red smudges of their campfires could be made out by the detail of the blazing branches. The silhouettes of tall men stood about the flames, some engaged in conversation, none in song. The morning’s slaughter had shaken them, and tonight would be a time for remembering those who had died spitted by arrows or crushed by rocks.
I froze as I felt Malchus’s hand on my shoulder. He then cupped it to my ear and whispered, ‘Two sentries. Fifty yards. Look ahead, and then come slightly to your left.’
I strained to hear the words, and followed the instructions. Sure enough, Malchus’s predatory eyes had picked out the outermost screen of Arminius’s sentries.
I felt a prodding in my ribs. I looked down, and saw that it was the centurion’s dagger. I met his look, and understood his meaning; we would go forward alone, and take out the enemy’s eyes.