The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘I will kill him,’ Bran whispered.

  ‘Not today, little brother, and when the day comes I will wield the blade.’

  ‘I am sorry that I was not here.’

  ‘We cannot change what has been done,’ she said, and leaned her head against his. Never before had she shown such intimacy, for Minura was a woman of few words and stern character. ‘We must face the truth and continue along our path. Is that not what we were taught?’

  ‘Yet, I long to wipe the smirk from that pig’s face.’

  ‘The day will come, but we were sent by the queen and must finish the task she set us.’ Her fingers tightened hard around his. ‘If I can bear to wait, then it should be a smaller deed for you.’

  Minura stood, the blanket opening a little to show that she was naked underneath. At any other time Bran would have thrilled at the sight, but now he looked away. When he turned back she was covered and smiling.

  ‘There is a stream not far away,’ she said, ‘and I need to be clean. Stay here.’

  Sosius got the captive down from his horse and told him to sit and not be a nuisance. While Bran brought in the horses and saw to them, the Freedman dragged the corpses away and then got the fire going again.

  ‘When she gets back you can fetch some water,’ he said to Bran. ‘Believe it or not, I started out in the kitchens and haven’t lost the touch. A hot meal will do us all good.’ The boy’s hatred was obvious. ‘Look, sonny, I’m sorry how things worked out, but I can’t change them. If you’d ever lived as a slave you’d know that life is a bastard and that no one is safe. She’s strong and brave, and she’ll learn to live with it because I don’t reckon she is the sort to give in. So we’ll all have a good meal and then decide what to do.’

  Sosius was a good cook, his stew a rare treat, making Bran wonder why the slave had got either him or Minura to cook for them on all the other days. She was more herself when she returned, dressed again and skin clean, and if she sat apart and said little that was nothing unusual.

  After they had eaten, Sosius told them that he must ride to see the local chieftain at his farmstead. ‘Chrauttius and the others were his cousins. Distant ones, but blood is blood and I’ll have to pay him in gold to make things right.

  ‘In the meantime, you take him,’ he jabbed a finger towards the captive, ‘back to the province and then south to the queen. Guess she’ll be in Moesia by then, probably the Upper province. Maybe Viminiacum, but I don’t know. The letters you have will see you through. No one will question those seals. I ought to have joined you long before then. If I can, it will be in a day or two, but it is hard to be sure.’

  Sosius had ridden away almost immediately, even though night was falling.

  ‘Doubt that we will see that slave again,’ Bran said after he had gone.

  ‘We will, on the day we find him and I kill him. And he is a free man now, no longer a slave.’

  They kept the prisoner tied hand and foot at night, and only released his legs when he needed to ride, and did the same on the days that followed.

  ‘I’m just a merchant,’ the man kept on insisting. ‘What do I know that really matters?’

  Sosius had told them that the man worked for Decebalus, and that his main business was recruiting allies for the king to help him against Rome. Such great affairs did not matter to them, so they ignored him, and spoke little and then only in the language of the tribes of Britannia. If the merchant understood, he showed no sign. Their job was to take him to the queen and that was what they would do. Bran had made it clear to the man that his head would do almost as well as the rest of him, if the task proved difficult.

  Sosius did not return and they were glad of that, especially as the journey was easy. They saw few people, and fewer still who wished to speak, so perhaps Sosius had cleared their path for them by speaking to the chieftain and others.

  On the third night Minura came to Bran as he was swilling their pan and plates in a brook. The merchant was tied up, and fastened to a tree trunk, so did not need to be watched.

  ‘Am I fair to look upon?’ Minura asked.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ he said and it was not flattery for he did consider her among the fairest of women he had seen. ‘If it were not for our oaths…’ A brother and sister who had learned the craft of war as they had done were not supposed to lie with one another.

  ‘My oath means little now that my honour has been taken,’ she said.

  Bran wondered when he would wake from this dream. She was taller than he was, and he had to reach up to lay his hands on her cheeks. ‘May I kiss you?’ he asked.

  ‘I should like that.’

  He felt the cut on her lip and tried to be gentle, but she pushed her mouth closer to his.

  ‘I know little of the way of these things,’ Bran said, wondering that he admitted to his ignorance, but unable to boast or posture with her.

  ‘Nor I,’ Minura said and she ran her fingers through his short hair. ‘Perhaps we can learn together?’

  X

  On the Ister between Dobreta and Pontes

  Fifth day before the Ides of April

  IT WAS A wonder without any doubt. If he had not had good reason to be here, simply seeing this would have made the long journey worthwhile. From down here on the waters of the Ister, the long southern stretch of the Danube, the pillars reared up like man-made cliffs. There were twenty of them, each 170 feet apart, the foundations great piers of stone, curving like the prows of ships into cutwaters so that the river’s force was spread and guided around them without pressing its full weight; functional and elegant, like all good architecture. The stonework rose to a flat top, carefully levelled off, and above that was the wooden supports, five great beams supporting a regular lattice pattern like a spider’s web or even a parade of isosceles triangles. From those rose the arches, curving up, each arch identical to the next, rearing high above them. As promised, the helmsman took them between two of the pillars so that he could see the design properly and stare up at the joists on top of which were planks of the roadway itself, unfinished here, since they were at the centre of the bridge.

  ‘Be finished in a month at the latest,’ the architect’s assistant told him. The great man himself had claimed that he was too busy to accompany them and had sent an underling.

  ‘Ephippus here will be your guide. I am sure that he will be able to answer whatever you feel inclined to ask,’ Apollodorus of Damascus had assured Hadrian. The chief architect had an immensely high opinion of his own merit and little patience with others. His talent was obvious, as was the emperor’s trust in his abilities, so that for the moment his conceit was understandable, if unfortunate. Hadrian was eager to learn, and it was so rare to encounter a man who had so much to teach. So the day before he had asked questions, when the architect had shown him the work from the Pontes’ bank of the river, where the monumental arch spanning the approach road was already complete, apart from the statues to be mounted on top. There was a matching arch on the far, Dobreta shore, which was making quicker process now that the soldiers who had built the other one had joined the workers there. Hadrian was pleased to see that some of his legionaries were involved, and spent time meeting them and praising their efforts.

  This was only part of the great projects undertaken to help the army secure the region, and the last to be completed. For several years now barges were able to bypass the long stretch of rapids on the Danube by using the new canal, aided by the road which for miles ran along the river, often cut out of the living rock. All of that had been completed while Hadrian was last in the area some three years ago, when the bridge was little more than plans and a bold idea. Now, it was almost finished, conceived by genius and turned into stone and timber reality by the labour of many soldiers, including the contingent from Legio I Minervia.

  It was natural for a commander to take an interest in work done by his troops, and equally natural that when officers visited the site they asked the presiding architect about the project.
Hadrian had put great thought into his questions, wishing to demonstrate that he was no ignorant aristocrat, showing interest for form’s sake and caring little for the answers. So he had asked about the details of the design, of the forces in play, of weight of material and current. They were good questions, useful questions, but Apollodorus’ answers were the same vague platitudes designed for the ignorant. Hadrian pressed him, trying to show that he was different, and even anticipated part of the answer in his question.

  ‘Apelles to Alexander,’ the architect had told Hadrian, not bothering to explain the allusion. Piso, who had up to this point shown no deep interest, sniffed as if he understood.

  Hadrian struggled to control his anger, aware that his face had reddened. It was an old story, and like so many about Alexander the Great, hard to know whether or not it was true. While sitting for a portrait at Ephesus, the Macedonian king had chattered away to the artist and his assistants, asking about composition and colours, and often making suggestions. Eventually Apelles, already famous and soon to win even greater reputation when Alexander declared that only he would be allowed to paint the royal image, told the king to stop talking, because even the lowest apprentices were laughing at his ignorance. The rebuke was a sharp one, arrogant because for all his great skill Apollodorus was speaking to a vir clarissimus, a member of the Senate, let alone kin to the princeps. It was also unfair, for engineering and architecture were among Hadrian’s great passions, and his interest was as informed as it was genuine. He would let the Syrian have his moment, but still wanted to learn all that he could. So he had asked to see some of the plans and said that he wished to take a tour around the bridge from the river. Apollodorus had agreed – it would have been hard to refuse – and delegated this underling to the job.

  Ephippus was a Greek from Syracuse in Sicily, who stuttered and twitched in the presence of the distinguished guests, but tried his best. His nervousness was not helped when Hadrian requested that an engineer come with him on his tour of the garrisons to provide technical advice, prompting Apollodorus to say in front of the Sicilian that he was sure he could spare him. By now Hadrian was satisfied with the choice. He had been patient with Ephippus, encouraged him with his smile and by gradually moving from simple to complex matters as he asked about the bridge. The man struck him as thoroughly competent, with extensive knowledge, if lacking in the spark of inspiration or any real appreciation of the aesthetic as more than just theory.

  For the tour, the garrison of Pontes supplied and manned one of the slim boats used for patrolling the river. Hadrian and Ephippus stayed in the stern, so that they could direct the helmsman to take them where they wanted to go. Piso hovered nearby, while an equestrian tribune and the two more surprising guests went up by the prow. Most of the rowers were more interested in them than anyone else, and Hadrian could see them twisting their heads at every opportunity to peer back over their shoulders. That was when they had effort to spare, because often the views he wanted meant rowing hard against the current. They muttered, as soldiers will, each time he had the helmsman turn about and head back upstream under yet another of the great arches. As far as he was concerned it was worth it.

  ‘Quite beautiful,’ Hadrian said softly as they came out into the open air again. He had to admit that Apollodorus had done a good job.

  ‘Not bad,’ Piso smirked, mistaking his meaning and instead staring at the two ladies standing in the prow, the wind rippling their dresses and outlining their figures. Hadrian’s senatorial tribune could be both vulgar and tiresomely direct. He tended to frown when he was thinking, head slightly bowed, so that he almost stared up as he fixed his gaze on whomever he was addressing at the time. Perhaps Piso believed this made him appear earnest, but the impression was of a halfwit, although Hadrian was coming to believe that it was a false one. Now he was almost leering at the women as blatantly as the soldiers, whenever they got a chance.

  They were both married to officers, on the way to join their husbands and would travel with Hadrian on the first stage of his journey beyond the river. Apart from his own escort, there were several hundred troops marching with them on their way to garrisons, so they had asked to come with him and he had been happy to grant the request. The older of the two, Sulpicia Lepidina, was a senator’s daughter, so a clarissima femina, even if she had married a mere equestrian. Her own family was impoverished, from a mixture of excess and poor management, which did much to explain the choice of husband, who had money if not high birth, and was by all accounts a decent enough fellow, well thought of by the emperor – at least when Trajan remembered to think of him at all. Lepidina’s uncle by marriage was Neratius Marcellus, just coming to the end of his term as governor of Britannia, and his brother was in charge of Pannonia. There were six hundred or so senators, and Hadrian always felt that it was like living in some rustic village, where everyone knew each other, and husbands were the neighbours’ cousins or brothers, wives their sisters, and all old kindnesses were remembered just as long as the old squabbles. Doing a favour was always wise, as long as it did not come at too high a price, and he had willingly granted the request when the ladies called on him, having arranged the matter with a courteous letter. When to his surprise they asked to accompany him on his trip on the river, Hadrian readily assented again. Curiosity was impressive in a woman, if not carried to excess.

  Hadrian guessed that Lepidina was in her thirties, yet her pale skin was flawless, her hair thick and golden, tied back in a simple bun. She was a beautiful woman, a rare intelligence in her eyes, her pale blue dress, like her hairstyle and modest jewellery, in contrast to the opulence of many fashionable ladies and far more elegant. He liked her, wondered whether she might be interesting company, and regretted that she was not even better connected for he suspected that she might have a formidable instinct for politics. That was a guess, for the lady was also reserved and he had not yet had the time to see whether this could be broken down. If she were ten years older he was sure that he could soon make her laugh enough for the walls to drop and for her to take him into her confidence.

  There was a little shriek as the rowers drove the boat against the current and the prow dipped, sending a spray of water over the ladies and the tribune escorting them. The cry was from the second lady, the younger one, Claudia Enica. She was laughing, flirting with the tribune and soon she was talking again, as she had jabbered away from the start. Claudia was green eyed, her flaming red hair rolled and piled high in a style more suited for a dinner than a boat trip. A number of red strands had worked loose of the pins and blew around her. She was younger than Lepidina, perhaps twenty-five, with an expensive green silk dress, almost too much make-up and almost too much jewellery that almost took away her own beauty.

  Hadrian was beginning to think that Claudia was not quite what she seemed, and was no longer so ready to dismiss her as an empty headed nobody. She was an equestrian, a third-generation citizen, from the royal family of the biggest tribe in Britannia, claiming to be their queen, although not formally recognised, at least so far. There were plenty of would-be kings and queens throughout the empire, most of little account except locally. The red hair was a distraction, contrasting with the would-be fashionable Roman lady, and reminding the world that a barbarian lurked underneath. Hadrian could not help thinking that this was deliberate, for surely someone wanting to pose as fully Roman would have dyed it some unexceptional shade.

  The tribune offered Claudia his cloak, apologising to Lepidina that he only had one. The redhead refused, very politely, as did the older lady when the embarrassed officer proffered the garment to her. So different in so many ways, the close bond between the two women was obvious, which in itself hinted that Claudia was play-acting the part of a frivolous young woman. There was something else, although Hadrian struggled to pin it down. Claudia moved well, almost like a dancer, and yet not like a dancer, and for all her good looks there was almost something boyish about her.

  As the boat turned to head back under the
bridge a final time the wind shifted, gusting stronger. The tribune almost fell as the boat lurched, and Claudia squealed and Lepidina gasped with surprise as the wind struck them, their dresses ballooning up over their knees for an all too brief instant.

  ‘Lovely the virgin seemed as the soft wind exposed her limbs, and as the zephyrs fond fluttered amid her garments, and the breeze fanned lightly in her flowing hair,’ Piso intoned.

  ‘She seemed most lovely to his fancy in her flight,’ Hadrian continued the quote. ‘And mad with love he followed in her steps.’

  ‘Quite,’ Piso said.

  ‘They’re married, you know, else they would not be here.’ Like the mention of Apelles, having his broad stripe tribune quoting Ovid was another sign that the man was not without learning or wit.

  ‘Since when did that matter?’ Piso said hungrily, and he smiled at the ladies’ embarrassment, becoming once again the crude, feckless young aristocrat. ‘The chase makes it worthwhile.’

  ‘You ought to be careful,’ Hadrian told him. Whatever his feelings for this man, what Piso did during his time with the legion would reflect on his own reputation. Hadrian needed to make the man useful, and if there was a mistake or worse, show to the world that he was not to blame for his tribune’s folly. ‘Daphne was turned into a tree to save her from Apollo’s lust.’

  ‘That’d be her problem not mine. Still, the blonde might be easier to run down. Less speed on her by the look of it.’

  ‘If you must be a fool, do not get caught while you are with my legion,’ Hadrian kept his voice low, so that even Ephippus could not hear, but made his tone as menacing as possible. Piso was not required to like him, and what mattered was that he obeyed.