Empress & Soldier, Chapter 3
In which Druisius learns about battle.
Need to catch up?
I STAND, SILENT. Around me, all the men are still. Those are our orders. Not a word, as little movement as possible. Only the horns sounding in the dark.
In the east, the sun is rising. No light here, not in these peaks. A cloud is caught on the heights, blanketing us, changing sound, distances. I shiver, but from cold inside me, not the fog.
Ahead of us are the Boranoi. They are not quiet. Ahead, and above us in the narrow pass.
The soldier to my right sniffles. His teeth chatter a little. From cold, or fear? Like me, he is a new recruit, young. Because we are new, inexperienced, we are the front troops. The veterans are behind us. We will take the first assault.
Marcellus explained this to me last night. Laying out xache pieces, showing me. A weak centre, he explains, makes the enemy overconfident. Brash. Reckless. They will smash through us to meet the force of the veterans.
He sees what I try to hide. “Every one of our experienced men was once in the same position,” he says. “What have they said, at the fires?”
“Don’t drink tonight,” I answer. “Do my best to sleep. Eat if I can in the morning. And make sure my sandals are tight.”
He nods. “The will to live is strong. Reflexes will save you, often, but you can’t risk dulling them with drink.” He grins, a flash of teeth. “Plenty of time for that afterwards.”
I can see shapes, now. The lowering mass of the mountains, a movement that is an officer on a horse. The bread I ate—yesterday’s, stale—sits heavily in my stomach. I did sleep, a little, but I was awake when Marcellus said my name in the dark. I helped him with his armour, shared the bread with him, drank a little water. A hand on my shoulder. “Go with the god, Druisius. I will see you later.”
Now I am here, and soon the battle will begin. I would like to think I am not afraid. I am.
Feet pound towards us. Men are shouting, metal clashing. The horn sounds. I hear the rain of bullets from the slingers, and then they are running back between our ranks and the horn sounds again, our signal this time. I raise my shield and sword and then there is a man looming out of the fog, his sword raised and for a moment I freeze but something I do not control takes charge, and I smash my shield up and drive my sword forward at the same time. I hear a grunt, and a wet sound as I pull the sword back. He falls, but then there is another and I duck under his thrust, ramming my shield up again, slashing at his legs. Beside me I hear a gasping gurgle and the man who was there is on the ground, but another steps up as I push my shield against my attacker’s. He is bigger than me, stronger, but I am from the subura and I know this trick. I jump back. He stumbles forward and I drive my sword into his side.
My breath comes in gasps. The air is thin here, and sour with the smells of blood and entrails and vomit. The fog is almost gone. If I could look up, I might see the ranks of the Boranoi, but I cannot look up. Only at shields and swords and the man in front of me. I stab and slash and thrust. A shield hits me hard, just as a horn sounds. I go down on one knee. See the blade curving down. I cannot breathe.
The man falls, sideways. “Go,” a voice says. “To the rear.” I scramble to my feet, gasp my thanks. But he is past me. I retreat through the gaps in the ranks. The veterans move up. I am alive.
Someone gives me a waterskin. I rinse my mouth, spit, drink. Then I pass the skin to another man. I see blood on his arm as he reaches for it. “You’re hurt.”
He glances down, shrugs. “A scratch.” He looks me up and down. “You’re not.”
I am not. Men are, though, from my sword. Hurt or dead. Dead. At my hand.
But they were trying to kill me. They were not newly-born, helpless. I push away the thought. I am a soldier, and soldiers kill. My job, now.
We have maybe twenty minutes at the rear. I catch my breath. Watch the fighting. The mass of our men is moving, up the pass. Are we winning? Bleeding men stumble through us to collapse on the ground. Others are carried. The medics kneel, shout for water. Men moan, sob, scream. I remember something, bend to tighten my sandals.
Straightening, I see Marcellus on his grey horse on the right flank. They hug the slope of the peak. Nowhere for the enemy to go. Something moves on the hillside, though. A man, more than one. I shout. Marcellus cannot hear me. No one can except men nearby. But Marcellus looks up, shouts too. The right flank becomes a turtle, shields up and over bodies, just as the javelins rain down.
A horn sounds, not my notes. Men run forward, bows in hand. I cannot see what they do, but I know from training. A shieldman will protect each archer as they shoot. More javelins fly. Arrows speed upward. Men fall. Marcellus is not under the turtle. A target. But he is galloping to the rear of the flank.
I tear my eyes away, look up to the left. The Boranoi do not repeat the attack on this side. Why not? The notes that command me ring out. I swallow bile and fear and move forward.
The ground is slick now, mud and blood. But I have rested, and the Boranoi have not. I slash and thrust with my sword, shove and pound with my shield. I step over bodies, theirs, ours. Sweat stings my eyes, makes my hand slide on the sword’s grip. I am panting, my throat raw. We are moving up the pass. Driving them back. I grin, and kill again.
It is over. The Boranoi are gone, conceding the day. The sun is high, but it is not yet noon. I lean on my shield, taking deep breaths. “Help me here,” a voice says. I look up. An older soldier gestures with his head. “He’ll need carrying. You take his legs.”
I fasten my sword to my belt, swing the shield to my back. I bend to take the man’s legs. “Wait,” his friend says. “You’re hurt.”
Hurt? I frown. “Your arm.” I look at my right, then my left. Blood drips from a long cut. When?
I shrug. “I didn’t feel it.”
“Often the way,” he says. “Can you still carry him?”
I can, and do, although now I know the cut is there it hurts. The medic glances at it, summons an assistant, younger than me. “Wash it,” he says, “and bandage it. Quickly. Then help me here.”
I wince at the washing. “Vinegar,” the boy tells me. He wraps a cloth around it, ties it off tightly. Runs to help the medic before I can thank him.
What do I do now? I cannot see my sergeant. But men are still carrying others from the field, so I go to help. Not all the wounded are ours. Men call out, not in Casilan. But I almost understand it. I listen as I go back and forth. Certain words. From the harbour, and the western trade.
“What happens to the Boranoi?” I ask the man I am working with. “The wounded?”
“When we’re done,” he answers, “rescued our wounded and taken our dead, they’ll be allowed to come for them.”
Already carrion birds are circling, some landing among the bodies. The black ones I know, crows, although some are bigger than the crows of Casil, and kites. At home they feed on dead things along the river. But there are other birds here, huge, pale-headed. Their beaks are curved and cruel.
Someone hands me bread. The sun is overhead now. I squat to eat, wiping sweat and mud off my lips first. I have never been this tired, not even after a day of unloading amphorae full of oil. Blood stains the bandage on my arm. I touch it. Dry.
“Soldier!” A sergeant, not mine. “Go with the carts.” The mule carts that carry baggage now carry the dead. I stand, follow, to help with bodies. Some are men I know. One is my sergeant, dead from a gaping wound to his thigh. None is Marcellus.
There are long shadows before we are done. I walk beside the last cart. There is blood and filth on me. This is how men die in battle. Some were not dead. They are now. The sergeants granted that grace. Behind us the Boranoi come for their casualties. I hear voices, the creak of cartwheels. I am too tired to look. But I am a soldier of Casil, and my day is not over.
There is food waiting, thick porridge and thin beer. I drink, first, then spoon up the meal. It tastes of nothing. I have my weapons to clean, mine and Marcellus’s. I need to wash. I sit as the darkness deepens around me.
A hand on my shoulder. “Druisius, isn’t it?” I look up. A sergeant. I push myself to my feet. “Your sergeant’s dead.” he says. I nod. “So is half your cohort. Don’t know how you survived, but you’re mine now. So get yourself cleaned up, and meet us over there.” He points to a fire. “Bring your weapons. You can see to them after we honour our dead.”
This is an order, and so I must. I do not think I like this sergeant. At the fire, its light reflects off metal. We clean swords and knives, cups of beer to hand. Not just my new cohort, recruits like myself, but older men too. They show us what we do. Thank the soldier’s god for life and victory, pour wine on the ground for him. Then drink, to the god and our dead.
“What happens tomorrow?” someone asks. The sergeant grins.
“That’s up to the general. Or the Boranoi. Or both.”
“Don’t worry about it,” one of the veterans says. “Just drink your beer, enjoy the fire. The gods decide the rest.”
“Gods and generals,” I hear.
“Gods, generals, emperors,” someone agrees. “Not us.”
Maybe they are right. Maybe I should not think of the future. I am alive. I have company and beer and a fire in the night.
A man begins to sing, a song about a woman. Others join in. I know the tune, not these words. There is a chorus, after which we drink. When it is done, to laughter, my new sergeant bends to me. “You play, don’t you? Go get your cithar.”
I have my own now, a present from Marcellus before we left Casil. I walk between tents and fires to fetch it. Inside Marcellus’s tent, there is no helmet on the table, no armour left for me to clean. My throat tightens. Is he hurt? Should I go to the medic’s tents?
There is another way to check. I light the brazier, so the tent will be warm when he returns. If. Then I take my cithar, but I do not go directly back to the fire. Instead, I go to the horse lines.
Marcellus’s grey is resting, head down, one hind foot cocked. It looks unhurt. The soldier guarding the horses shrugs at my question. “I heard nothing. The grooms are over there, those who lived.” They fight too, just as I do. Serving an officer or his horse is only part of our duties.
“The Captain’s fine,” the groom tells me. “The officers are making plans together. Want some beer?”
I refuse, holding up the cithar. “I am ordered to play, yes? A new sergeant.” I tell him who.
“Don’t keep him waiting.” A warning?
Back with my cohort, I am greeted by a frown from the sergeant. The men jest about where I’ve been. I tune the cithar, start to play, guessing at a tune. I guess well. There are scurrilous words to this one too. And the next.
I play for an hour, more. Sometimes I choose the tune, sometimes I follow the song as it’s sung. Halfway through a song, the sergeant suddenly stands. The singing stops.
“At ease,” Marcellus says. “I’m not here to spoil your night. Although I am taking your musician away.” I scramble to my feet.
“Captain.” He looks tired. His shoulders slump a little.
“Come,” he says to me.
The tent is warm. Marcellus’s armour rests against one of the chests. Before I gather what I need to clean it, I check the brazier, add wood. Marcellus sits on the stool. He is still wearing his greaves. I kneel to unbuckle them.
But as my fingers touch his calves his hands are on my shoulders, and then my neck. He pulls me between his thighs, and need and want rise hard in me. And in him, I see and feel and taste. We are on the floor, not waiting for the bed, and this is something new. Something I cannot name. I am alive, and so is he, and there is sweat and thrust, but not blood, not death. It is not wine we offer the god, but life.
And laughter, after a long moment, from Marcellus. His weight is still on me, over me. As if he was protecting me, I think. Feel. He swears, softly. Reverently, maybe. Kisses me, something he rarely does, before pushing himself up. He is smiling.
“I’ll clean your armour now,” I say. Can I? I am weak. Spent. Not…here, somehow.
“You won’t.” He kneels, holds out a hand. “Tomorrow will do.”