by Alex Faure
He inclined his head at them, keeping his expression composed. Then he slipped out.
*
Darius spent several minutes questioning the soldiers, now shame-faced and alert. When had the women come to the fort? Had they been all brought by their families? What were the reasons given for selling them to Rome?
He was unsurprised when the soldiers claimed that no one had questioned the women’s families—they wanted gold, one of the men said with a shrug. They always wanted gold—what was mysterious about that?
Darius paced back to his room, unsatisfied. He had half a mind to summon Marcus to him again, but he didn’t know what he would say. He had felt this unease before at the presence of a group of Celts in his fort.
Yet these were not warriors taken prisoner under mysterious circumstances, but women fairly bought and paid for. Darius wondered if his failure at Sylvanum was casting a shadow on Attervalis, and he felt a chill at the idea that he might not be able to trust his instincts anymore.
But perhaps it was true. He had been through so much. Perhaps it had taken a toll. It did seem ridiculous, in the warm lamplight of his room, that he should be suspicious of a roomful of women.
Darius settled for doubling the guard on the women, and ordering them to be searched daily from head to toe. Then he stripped and threw himself on his bed, hoping for sleep to take him soon, and also that the days between now and his removal from Hibernia would pass swiftly.
Chapter Sixteen
Darius was awoken an hour before dawn by pounding on his door.
He rose and spoke briefly with the soldier outside. Smoke had been spied offshore, but in the darkness, the source couldn’t be identified. Marcus had ordered all senior officers to the briefing room.
Darius splashed himself with water from the basin and threw on his clothes. He felt a building sense of grim inevitability. The shadows beyond his door seemed darker, somehow, as if they had been joined by shadows from the deep woods the Empire had hacked away to build her forts.
“Report,” Darius said unthinkingly as he entered the briefing room.
Marcus looked up. “We think it’s the supply ship.”
Darius felt the foreboding grow, morphing into a presence that took up space in the room.
Scipio raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look surprised.”
Darius rubbed his face. “Have we had word from the ship since last night?”
“No,” said Remus, one of the centurions. His hawkish gaze was preoccupied with the sailing charts upon the table. “Given that the tide has turned, they should have put into harbour several hours ago. Something’s wrong.”
“Where is the translator?” Darius said.
“Alaine? He set sail last night, as soon as the ship was sighted on the horizon,” Marcus said. “They were waiting offshore until the tide was favourable. He felt it would be easiest for all involved if he went aboard and prepared the men for unloading.”
Darius frowned. “Was that necessary?”
“It was his idea. He’s a man who knows his business.”
“Is he?” Darius had spoken to Alaine only twice since arriving at Attervalis. He couldn’t say he’d gotten a handle on the man at all. He was small and dark-eyed, typically Celtic, and though his Latin was understandable enough, he always gave Darius the impression that he had little desire to make friends, and disliked being pressed into conversation. Darius had encountered enough men of that temperament to know that if you could get them talking about their own interests, you could often form a bond with them despite themselves. But he’d had no luck with the reedy Britannian. That the man had sailed out to meet the supply ship shortly before it caught fire struck Darius as an unpleasant coincidence.
“We should send out a rescue vessel, Commander,” Scipio said. “If they’re unable to get the fire under control, they’ll be swimming to Attervalis.”
“What rescue vessel?” Marcus said. “All we have is the Daedalus, and that old trireme doesn’t even have hoists—we’ll be fishing men out of the water with nets.”
“Gentlemen, I know the situation is urgent, but can we back up a step?” Darius said. “Marcus, how well do you know Alaine?”
Marcus gave him a sharp look. “I know that as long as he’s paid promptly and out of all proportion to his worth as an uneducated barbarian, he’s tractable and quick to take direction. Why?”
Darius drew a breath. “I believe we have to entertain the notion of foul play.”
Remus let out a breath of laughter. Marcus said nothing, merely watched Darius with a furrowed brow.
“Foul play?” repeated another centurion, a bulky man named Aeneas. “We aren’t even certain if there’s a fire on that ship, or if some onshore smoke has drifted out to sea.”
“If it’s the Minerva, it probably started in her kitchen,” Remus said dismissively. “I’ve seen enough of that in my time. Those old galleys are infamous for fires—the Minerva’s had two in her day. They smoke like hell, but they’re easy to contain. There’s no reason to think she’s in danger of foundering.”
Darius took a slow breath to control his temper. “Perhaps it is a kitchen fire. Perhaps the ship’s cook set the porridge alight. If so, no further thought is necessary beyond rescuing the men. If, on the other hand, this was an act of sabotage, then we have a serious situation on our hands.”
“Alaine dislikes the Hibernians,” Marcus said. “Most Britannians do. He views them as primitive backwater-dwellers, unlike our cosmopolitan barbarians on the larger isle, who have long traded with the continent and know something of the wider world. Even among barbarians, there are hierarchies. I can’t imagine him helping them.”
Darius was momentarily stymied. Part of him was astonished at how dismissive these men were towards any suggestion of Celtic strategy after Sylvanum—not to mention the destruction they’d wrought on Attervalis. And yet hadn’t he once been of the same mind? For most soldiers of the Empire, the sub-human intellect of the barbarian tribes compared to Roman ingenuity was as self-evident as the wetness of water. It wasn’t easy to divest oneself of such deeply-held truths. Even Darius found himself recoiling from his own theories, and he knew for a fact that intelligent Celts existed—he’d spent hours conversing with one. Fionn might lack any knowledge of philosophy—nor to mention ethics—but he had a mind as quick as his sword arm.
He knew he had to keep trying to convince these men. “Nonetheless,” he said. “We can’t overlook what happened at Sylvanum. There was planning there, Marcus, and there may be planning here. We can’t look upon these people as simple-minded. We must take them seriously if we want to avoid another disaster.” He could hear his voice growing heated, which was most unlike him.
Marcus said nothing for a long moment, his eyes on Darius. He finally sighed. “What would you have us do, Captain?”
“Send patrols into the forest,” Darius said. “A show of force. Whatever the Celts are planning, make it clear that they won’t be able to carry it out easily. Double the sentries along the wall. And send men—in rowboats, if need be—out to that ship so we can work out what the hell is going on.”
Marcus nodded. “Scipio, draw up the new duty roster. This will mean long hours, and the men won’t be happy about it. Tell them that Agricola in his wisdom has seen fit to bump up their pay—that should keep them quiet enough.”
“Has he?” Remus said.
“No, but I believe he’ll be amenable. After all, Rome has been saving on salaries considerably since Sylvanum was wiped out.” Marcus said it in a flat voice. “Remus, you take a party down to the harbour. Send out as many boats as you can. Have blankets ready, in case there are men overboard—those waters are cold, even at this time of year.”
The men filed out, and Darius was left alone with Marcus.
“Thank you,” he said. “I know you’re not convinced about this.”
Marcus shrugged. “I trust your instincts, Dari. It’s really as simple as that.” He smiled slightly. “You
didn’t tell me to station additional guards around the well.”
Darius gave him a long look. “Because I know you already have.”
Marcus made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “True. But these theories of yours have me wondering if perhaps I should double them.”
*
Morning ushered in another warm, cloudless day, as well as the news that the Minerva had foundered. Remus managed to rescue thirty-two men—all Roman, as the Celtic slaves had been kept in chains below decks and were presumed dead. In total, nearly eighty souls had been lost.
One of the cooks was among the rescued, and protested until his voice grew hoarse that the fire had begun in the cargo hold, not the kitchen, though he had no idea what had sparked it. The Minerva had been carrying a large quantity of explosives, and it was possible that improper storage had been at the root of the ship’s destruction.
“What do you think?” Scipio said. He, Darius, Marcus, and Remus stood on the practice grounds, which had been cleared of vegetation and hard-packed but somehow still managed to accumulate a smattering of weed and shrubs. “Do we send to Agricola for more supplies? There was a considerable array of weaponry aboard that ship. The general may not be able to spare more at present.”
“We have to send him news of the ship’s fate regardless,” Marcus said. He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if I can venture to provide advice on how to proceed. Perhaps we may leave it up to the great man to make that determination himself.”
“So much for our hard strike against the Robogdi,” Remus said heavily. His short hair was disordered from much wind and salt water, and his arms were bandaged from where he had cut himself sifting among the wreckage of the Minerva for survivors. “Will Agricola bother sending the promised five hundred soldiers if we lack the weaponry to carry out our plan?”
Marcus rubbed his face. “The general was already reluctant to reassign those men. He worried it could leave him shorthanded. The Britannian natives are not all peaceable—those in the west have been restive lately.”
“The west,” Darius murmured. “Isn’t that where Alaine was from?”
“Do you still suspect him of sabotage?” Remus said. “The man is dead, Commander—I mean, Captain. It’s likely he was down in the slave hold with his countrymen when the ship foundered.”
“And now we lack a translator,” Scipio said.
“That is the least of our worries, unfortunately,” Marcus said. “I suppose I should begin composing my report to Agricola. Darius, if you could assist me? I suspect the old man will react more proportionately to this news if he hears it written in your voice.”
Darius moved to follow Marcus to the Commander’s quarters, but before they had travelled a dozen steps, a tremendous boom nearly threw Darius off his feet.
“What was that?” Darius shouted up at the wall. The nearest sentry turned and shouted something down at them that was lost in another ear-splitting boom.
“It’s the onagers again,” Marcus said, then let out a string of curses. “I thought we killed enough of those bastards last time that they wouldn’t try another attack. Perhaps you were right about the Minerva, Commander. Their timing is uncanny—as if they knew we’d right now be reeling from the loss of the ship.”
Another boom. “That’s the north wall,” Darius said. He and Marcus set off at a gallop.
It was as Darius feared. One of the parapets had been smashed, and though Darius saw no bodies, he heard shouts and screams from the other side of the wall. The soldiers manning the parapet had fallen, but at least some were still alive. Darius didn’t think. He shouted for the closest soldiers to accompany him, then led them through the north gate to the rubble. They fished out the wounded men (one was dead, the other three badly wounded), and dragged them back into the fort before the next missile struck.
Darius risked a glance over his shoulder before the gate closed behind him. The forest was a number of yards away across a field of green. He could just make out the figures of men darting among the shadows—more men than he would have expected—and a hulking shape that he guessed was the onager.
“Marcus!” he shouted, once he’d handed off the wounded man he was supporting to another soldier. “The onager is just past the tree line. If we can send a party to surround them from behind—”
“It won’t work,” Marcus said, turning from the soldier he’d been giving orders to. “The terrain drops off steeply in that direction—we’d be fighting uphill.”
Darius thought that over. “Then we attack them head-on. They can’t have more than a few dozen men, surely.”
“Try a few hundred,” Marcus said grimly. He motioned to the western parapet. “That’s Terius’s estimate, and I believe him. The man has the eyes of an eagle.”
Darius closed his eyes briefly. He knew what this meant. “Nevertheless, we must meet them. We can’t allow them to continue pounding away at our walls.”
“I beg to differ, Captain,” Marcus said. His face was pale, but his voice was determined. “Walls can be rebuilt. Men cannot. If we join them in battle in that forest, with the numbers they have, we will likely win—but the cost will be steep. We lost too many men today. I won’t allow this bloody tide to continue. That’s why I’m going to send word to Undanum.”
“Reinforcements?” Darius said. “But that will leave Undanum undermanned.”
“It’s of little matter. Undanum has a strategic advantage, having been built upon open ground. The Celts haven’t targeted them, nor are they likely to. Once those men arrive, we’ll set fire to that forest and wait for the rats to scurry into our grasp.” Marcus’s hand was clenched on his sword, and with a seeming effort, he loosened it. “Our rider will reach Undanum within two hours. The men will be here by evening. Our walls can hold until then, Dari.”
Darius didn’t argue. The truth was that he was as eager as Marcus to spare Roman lives. It made sense from a strategic perspective as well—men were a resource as much as weapons were, and after the twin disasters of Sylvanum and the Minerva, it was a resource in short supply.
Darius spent the rest of the day overseeing the archers. He was no better at shooting than he was at swordplay, but he knew how to manage men, especially men jittery from recent setbacks and discontented with their commander’s decision not to fight the enemy. He identified the malcontents and kept them apart from the other men, speaking to each separately so as to allow them to voice their concerns. He gave the same leeway to the less excitable soldiers, though he put a stop to any discussions critical of Marcus. Happily, the archers had some successes; over the course of the day, they picked off over fifty Celts, despite the difficulty presented by the distance and the tree cover. Darius encouraged them to make a competition of it, and as darkness fell, some of the men were joking with each other. The onager had ceased firing—the missile strikes had lessened considerably over the afternoon, so much so that Marcus believed the Celts were running out of ammunition. Darius wasn’t so sure. He knew what Sylvanum’s stores had held, and unless a substantial amount had burned with the fort—possible, he supposed—there was no tactical reason why their fire should have lessened. Surely the Celts would have no qualms about wreaking maximum damage upon Attervalis.
It was as he was heading down to join Marcus and the other senior officers for a hasty supper that he remembered the women. He doubted that, given the gravity of the situation, anyone would have bothered keeping up the guard. Sure enough, he found the outbuilding abandoned.
Darius muttered a curse. He wondered how he was going to convince Marcus to maintain a guard on a roomful of whores during a siege. He pulled the door open, expecting to be confronted with a sea of confused and alarmed faces, as prettily painted as they had been before.
The room was empty.
Darius’s heart hammered. Had the women been moved? If so, why? The outbuilding was well outside the range of the onager. He stood there for a few seconds, staring, as if he expected the women to materialize befo
re him. Then he went out.
“Soldier,” he called to the first man he saw. He was leaning against one of the storehouses in an odd way that made Darius wonder if he’d been injured. “Where are the slaves? Why was I not informed that they had been moved?”
The man turned, and Darius froze. Staring out at him from beneath an ill-fitting helmet was the red-haired wench who had propositioned him. Her luxurious locks were stuffed into the helmet and her figure was concealed by a soldier’s cloak. She looked startled, and then her gaze flicked past him, and she smiled. She puckered her lips in a lascivious kiss.
“What are you—” Darius began.
“Sir, look out!” a voice cried.
Darius ducked instinctively. A sword sliced through the air above him. He rolled in anticipation of another blow, colliding with the red-haired woman, who fell on top of him. He moved to shove her off, but she was on him like a wildcat, rolling him onto his back before he could recover his bearings and drawing a dagger from some hidden place in her stolen uniform. She brought her face close to his and hissed something, her gaze full of triumphant fury.
Darius knew he had to strike her, but his entire being recoiled at the prospect of doing so. Instead he knocked her arm aside, hooked his leg around her, and forced her onto her back. She was strong, and managed to jab his shoulder with the tip of her blade. He let out a hiss of pain, and they wrestled for a moment, before she gave a cry of pain and went still.
Darius’s grip loosened and he gazed down at her, worried he had hurt her. In that same moment, she gave him a feral grin and shoved him off her. Then she was on him again, dagger raised for a killing blow.
It never came. Someone wrenched the woman off him, then threw her hard against the wall. Her head, having lost its helmet during the scuffle, struck the stone. She went down and did not move again.
