‘Go,’ I pleaded, readying myself to end it all. ‘Go!’ I barked.
They would not.
And then the sky rained fire.
18
My eyes were closed. I was picturing the fire arrows that had streaked through the sky above me as Malchus and Brando had grabbed my tunic and dragged me like a corpse to the fort’s wall. There I had tried to stand, but my limbs had mutinied, failing to obey the simplest command. That did not condemn me, for the awesome display of force from the fire arrows had deterred the German pursuit, and so we were unmolested as ropes were lowered, and I was trussed up like a calf to be lifted on to the battlements and carried to my barrack room.
I opened my eyes to daylight, finding three pairs peering back at me: Folcher, Brando, Stumps.
‘You daft cunt,’ the Roman grunted.
I sought out Brando. ‘Thank you.’
The Batavian shrugged his shoulders.
‘You should eat,’ his companion urged.
I shook my head. From the tight feeling of my skin, I knew that I was decorated in dried blood. I wanted it off me. The gnawing hunger in my stomach could wait.
‘You look happy?’ I asked the Batavians cautiously as I got to my feet. The two men were poised to come to my aid should I falter, but they beamed at the news they delivered.
‘The raid worked,’ Brando exclaimed. ‘Arminius’s men are cutting down every tree they can find.’
‘And moving them that way,’ Folcher added, pointing to the distance. ‘Not this way.’
‘How many made it back?’ I asked.
‘All but twelve,’ Brando answered with a shrug. He wasn’t being callous. Men died in battle, and a dozen had died that night in an effort to buy life for hundreds within the fort. In the economics of war, it was a profitable trade.
‘I hope it was quick,’ Folcher added, grave.
Brando explained to me that Centurion H had excused our section duties that day, and that we should expect a few more men to join us soon, when they were released from the fort hospital’s care. I told my comrades to wait for me in the barracks, and went in search of the nearest well.
It was easy to find, as dozens of civilians moved back and forth to the ramparts carrying buckets. These they were using to fill a wide range of containers, from wine barrels to vases, all stored beneath the fort’s walls. If Arminius was carrying out his own ruse – and the removal of the timber was a feint before using it to attack the fort – then Prefect Caedicius would do what he could to douse the flames. At the gatehouse, soldiers poured water over the ramparts to keep the gate’s timbers sodden.
Seeing such industry within the camp, I expected I would have to wait some time for my turn at the pump. Of course, I had not taken my appearance into account, and when the civilians took in the bloodied and muddied figure that arrived among them they soon moved away, their eyes either fixed on the dirt or drawn irresistibly to the story painted on to my skin.
I had intended to wash directly beneath the pump, but realized now that to do so would hold up the fort’s preparations. Blood was thick on my forearms and had matted my hair, and I knew that I would not be clean quickly. I needed a bucket so that I could move myself to a quiet spot, and I turned this way and that to find one.
‘Here,’ a voice offered.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, taking the offered bucket from a young woman. She was perhaps twenty, her blond hair and accent betraying her German heritage. Her face was unremarkable, but her eyes flashed with the brightest blue; they reminded me of the waters of home. And so they compelled me to speak. ‘You don’t need this for the walls?’
‘I can wait,’ she answered, eyeing me with more than curiosity. I looked for what that was, feeling in her manner something more desperate than morbid fascination with a killer.
‘You came from Varus’s army,’ she said. ‘I saw you, when they brought your men over the wall.’
‘I did.’
‘I would like to ask you things, if that is fine?’
I wondered at her interest, but shrugged. ‘It is. Let’s move over here. I’m getting in people’s way.’
That was a lie. I was simply sick of their stares. From the flash in her blue eyes, I saw that the girl understood that.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked her.
‘Linza.’
‘Felix,’ I offered; then I began to scrub the blood from my body. I thought I knew why this girl wanted to talk to me, and so I pre-empted the subject, suddenly uncomfortable with her attention. ‘You know someone who was in the army?’ I guessed.
‘My husband. He is a Batavian.’
‘Name?’
‘Gildo. Fourth Cohort.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never come across anyone by that name, but two of the men that came in with me are Batavian. I could take you to them, if you’d like to talk to them?’
The slightest drop appeared in her shoulders. ‘I have.’
‘I’m sorry.’
The girl surprised me with her next words.
‘I am hoping he is dead,’ she said. Feeling my look, she pushed on to explain. ‘Better to be dead than a slave. The things they do… I pray he is dead.’
There wasn’t much I could say to comfort the woman. She was right. And what use are soothing words when they come from a man wiping blood from his hands?
‘Thank you. I’ll go now,’ she said, though she made no move to leave, and her words were floated as a question. I had come to the well in search of some solitude, but a kind female presence was unlike anything I had experienced since Pannonia, and a voice whispered inside my mind that I should enjoy the moment while it lasted. The alternatives were the company of my own cracked mind, or my comrades in the barrack blocks: beloved to me, but certainly harder on the eyes and nostrils than this woman.
‘Could you help me get more water?’ I asked.
‘I can.’
I could hear the relief in her reply; she was as desperate as I for an escape from her truth. Together, we could perhaps provide each other with the briefest respite from our realities.
And then Arminius appeared.
My first warning of it was calls of alarm from the ramparts. The mood of the civilians switched from confidence to the early stages of terror in moments. I put the bucket in the girl’s hands without a word and made for the ramparts. I wanted to run, but the painful memory of my collapse was still fresh. I was a proud bastard, I realized then. It hadn’t been the thought of my own imminent death that had stung me so deeply in the field, but the thought that I had, through my own weakness, endangered the life of my comrades who had been forced to carry me.
It took me some time to reach the western rampart. By the time that I did, the fighting step was thronged with off-duty soldiers come to join those of the watch.
‘Get back to your fucking posts!’ I heard Malchus roar. ‘This isn’t a fucking theatre! Get back to your posts, and stand by for your orders! Move!’
The tall man’s face was livid, and soldiers ran quickly at his words. Malchus was astute, and did not want Arminius to lure our eyes to one spot, opening up our blind sides.
I was turning to leave myself, when the centurion’s voice boomed again.
‘Felix!’
A sweeping gesture of his arm was my invitation to join him.
‘You don’t need to be here for this,’ he grunted as I saluted him on the rampart. ‘But, because you were there, I’ll give you that choice.’
I wondered at his words, and then, as I looked out over the wall and into the field, I understood too welclass="underline" Arminius had come, and he had not come alone. Three Roman soldiers knelt in the dirt.
‘My men,’ Malchus hissed.