The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Brasus blinked as he turned around a bend in the cave and saw its mouth, the red light of the dawn appallingly bright to his eyes. The horn sounded again, oddly fainter this time, and it was even more strange that he did not think about anything apart from forcing life back into his painful feet and legs as he tried not to fall or trip. He felt chilled, and draping the cloak he had left near the entrance did little to warm his naked body. His other clothes were outside, and he fumbled with buckles and brooches as he drew them on. The climb down the little cliff was not hard, and by this time he was shaking off the stiffness. After that the walk to the camp was easy and by the time he reached it he felt invigorated. Men stared at him, some nervous, some showing their awe of what he had done and others with no interest. Half these men were deserters, who understood nothing. Brasus did not speak for it was only as he saw these faces that he realised that his mind had truly been clear from the moment he left the cave. This was how it had always been for him, after the long hours of vigil and the jumble of thoughts, ideas and doubts. Afterwards his mind felt stronger and fresher and everything he set his hand to do went well. Whether or not others felt the same he could not tell and it no longer seemed to matter.

  Brasus smiled at one of the younger warriors, a nervous lad whose wisps of beard made him look even more childlike. ‘Soon,’ he said.

  XVII

  Piroboridava

  Six days before the Ides of May

  IT DID LOOK odd, no matter how many times he saw it, but this was the first festival day of the standards, so it was to be draped with roses like the other vexilla and that was an end to it. Ferox had already crowned the flag of the vexillation of Legio I Minervia as the senior unit, the standard-bearer lowering it so that he could place the wreath of flowers. The flag was an old one that had seen a fair bit of service, so that its original red had faded to a paler pink, on which the golden boar of the legion charged. After that came the lone banner for the largest contingent of auxiliaries since they were next in seniority even if far fewer in number than the Brigantes. All of the garrison who could be spared were on parade, the regulars immaculately turned out and the Brigantes putting on a decent enough show when it came to polished helmets, armour and metalwork.

  Their vexillum dipped, pendants jingling, so that Ferox could place a wreath over the spearhead on top and that meant that he did not have to see the banner itself. He lingered, hoping that the choice of mainly blue flowers would please the warriors because their tribe was fond of the colour and saw it as lucky. Then he was done, and the standard-bearer nodded and raised the pole just as the wind stirred so that the flag hanging from it flapped, almost waving in his face.

  Ferox sighed, and kept a straight face, for he was the commander and must act as priest, but it was hard. The painted goddess stared back at him, unsmiling with its flowing red hair. Back on the night of the Brigantes’ festival, when all of them were drunk and their generosity with wine and beer meant that so was almost the entire garrison, someone had got into the aedes and tampered with the flag. Gone was most of the figure’s dress, and the painter had given the goddess bare and very large breasts.

  ‘I doubt that she would be able to stand up straight,’ Claudia Enica had said when she was shown the damage.

  ‘You manage, my queen,’ Vindex suggested.

  ‘The Carvetii are an insolent folk,’ she had said, shaking her head in mock reproof, ‘and vile of tongue.’ She had also refused to have the additions painted over. ‘We don’t want to weigh the poor girl down with layer after layer.’

  So the bare-breasted goddess stayed, although Ferox had never seen any other unit in the army with such a standard. Piso had almost choked in surprise when he saw it after demanding to inspect the entire base.

  The tribune had woken with a raging temper, perhaps in part because of his sore head. He had no memory of how it had happened, and indeed had to have it explained why he was in hospital at all. More surprisingly he seemed to have little interest in investigating the matter. Snarling at the medicus, Piso had insisted that he was fine and got up that first day. Since the effort did not kill him, perhaps he was right, and by the next morning he was demanding an escort to take him to Sarmizegethusa as intended. Ferox argued, although not with great passion. Perhaps once or twice he had wished to have a superior officer present so that the responsibility passed to someone else, but the mood had not lasted. For all the dangers – in fact because of all the dangers and all that was at risk – he was determined to be in charge. Added to that, the little he had heard about the tribune made him eager to be rid of the man.

  That opinion was confirmed on the next day, when Ferox led out a hundred and fifteen horsemen in addition to the twenty allotted to escort Piso all the way to the garrison at Decebalus’ stronghold. If the tribune was to be killed, Ferox preferred to make clear that it was not through any lack of care or precaution on his part. Enica did not come, although the bulk of the men he led were her Brigantes, and he gathered that she had no enthusiasm for the tribune’s company.

  Piso said little during the long ride up the valley, and Ferox got the distinct impression that the man had no interest in anything that a mere centurion could say. Sabinus was with them, and tried to engage the tribune in conversation, most often talking about I Minervia, but the responses were brief and surly so that after a while he lapsed into silence and found plenty of reasons to ride back down the column to check on the men. Unlike many aristocrats, Piso did not enjoy the sound of his own voice sufficiently to crave any audience at all. He expressed surprise at the size of the whole force.

  ‘They’re just barbarians, and we are at peace,’ he said, and was unimpressed when Ferox spoke of the ambush of his patrol and of the suspicions that he and Hadrian shared. Piso’s lip curled at the mention of his commander, but his scepticism was obvious. ‘The war here was won three years ago and there won’t be another. They may be barbarians, but they know the might of Rome. Behind every man who rides with us today, they will see the hundred or a thousand who would follow if there is trouble.’ He grinned, and was the most affable he had been all day. ‘If you wish to rise in the army, centurion, you must see the bigger picture. We represent the full empire and majesty of Rome, even when we have a rabble of our own barbarians and not legionaries with us today.’ His voice was loud and he obviously did not care who heard his opinion.

  ‘What does an attack on a small patrol mean?’ he went on. ‘Only that there are bandits here as there are in so many lands, especially in the mountains. Your men were unlucky to be caught, and poorly trained to be caught so easily, but there is no more to it than that. Bandits are desperate men, living without gods or laws, and they murder and steal because that is all they know and trust to their very unimportance for safety. Why should we send men to hunt a few scum like that when there are so many things for us to do? Decebalus is different and his people are barbarians but live under laws of their own. They know that the empire can crush them any time it wishes – and you need to show that you know it too by your bearing and every act. So you must be audacious, centurion, always audacious for in your small way you are Rome.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Ferox said, doing his best to sound sycophantic. ‘I had not perceived that truth.’

  Piso gave him an odd look, and soon they stretched the horses’ legs with a gallop which ended any need for conversation.

  Ferox led them to within sight of the high pass. They had set out before dawn and gone at a steady pace, so that there were almost three hours of daylight left. He suggested that they camp, and that the tribune set out first thing the next morning.

  ‘Nonsense – a pure waste of time. I’m going now, and will see whether we can get across before we camp.’

  ‘Sir.’ If the tribune wished to be audacious then that was his business. They had seen no enemies or anything suspicious during the day, but nor had they seen as many herdsmen and travellers as he would expect at this season.

  Ferox made the most
of the remaining light to take his men a few miles back so that they could camp on a low hillock, out of bowshot of the forests on either side of the valley. Still he had not seen anyone, and if a hundred or so men was enough to make the enemy wary then that was a good sign. Their caution was unlikely to be so great in the darkness.

  ‘No fires,’ he ordered, and was rewarded with a chorus of moans. They had nothing to cook anyway, and only rations of bread and salted meat. The camp had to be big, given all their horses, and they had brought blankets but no tents for the men, but the high ground was large enough for them all to have space, animals in the middle, hobbled or tethered and the men in a circle around them.

  ‘I want one in three men awake at all times,’ he told Sabinus, Vindex and the two decurions. ‘Patrols one hundred paces out every half hour. On horseback so you can ride down anyone unwise enough to come close. You organise that, Vindex. There’s no moon, so it won’t be too light. Keep your eyes open. There are five of us, so first and last ones on watch do a three-hour shift and the rest two hours. I’ll take the middle one, Sabinus the first and Vindex the last because he will be out a couple of times on patrol. All understood?’ They nodded. ‘And don’t worry if I clear off for a bit.’

  Vindex sucked in his breath. ‘One of those nights, is it? Or are you going over the rampart?’

  ‘Might be an idea. Wonder how much Decebalus would pay for a good centurion these days?’

  ‘A good one, plenty,’ Vindex suggested. ‘But you…’ He patted Sabinus on the shoulder, and now more used to the Britons and their rough ways, the officer only started a little. ‘The centurion here likes playing games at night, my lord. Silures are all like that. Ugly buggers you see, that’s why they go out at night when they can hide.’ Sabinus did not seem reassured.

  *

  The first arrow hissed into the camp part way through the second watch, flicking a sentry’s cloak without doing any more harm. He turned towards the direction from which it had come before pitching forward, a second arrow in the small of his back. His companion was shouting the alarm, as another flew high overhead and grazed one of the horses.

  ‘Keep down!’ the decurion screamed. ‘Use your shields!’

  Sabinus had leapt up from his blankets, jerked from sleep that had come late and with difficulty. A man pushed into him, then there was a dull smack and the Brigantian fell, the shaft of an arrow sticking from his eye. Someone else screamed in pain, and a horse whinnied and broke free of its tether. The others were stirring, panicking.

  ‘Get them under control!’ Sabinus shouted and ran to grab the mane of one of the nearest. ‘Whoa, boy, whoa!’ he cooed to the animal.

  One more arrow whipped through the air above him, but order was coming to the little camp.

  ‘Wait for ’em, boys,’ Vindex shouted.

  ‘Stay together,’ called one of the decurions.

  There was silence.

  ‘Where have the bastards gone?’ someone asked.

  ‘Quiet!’ snapped the decurion.

  A man screamed, some way away in the darkness. There was a grunt, a clash of blade ringing on blade and then a yell so unearthly that Sabinus shuddered and feared that the horse would bolt, so he patted it and ran his hand through its mane. The cry went on, longer and longer until he prayed that it would stop.

  ‘Taranis!’ came a voice from close by. ‘The poor sod.’

  ‘Shut up, you stupid bastard,’ snapped the decurion, obviously unnerved by the sound.

  No more arrows came and the silence enveloped them again. They waited. Sabinus felt that the horses were calm now, and knew that it was his duty to see what was happening. He stumbled over the corpse with the arrow in its eye, recovered and then went where he thought that he had last heard one of the decurions.

  ‘Best keep down, sir, or find a shield,’ the decurion said from the shadows.

  ‘Looks like you are in charge,’ Vindex added, his teeth white in the dim starlight.

  ‘Where is Ferox?’ Sabinus asked, forgetting to call him the Lord Ferox after the fashion of these folk.

  ‘Is he down?’ The decurion was still nervous.

  ‘You in the camp!’ The shout came from outside. ‘I am coming in. Don’t do anything daft!’

  ‘There he is,’ Vindex said cheerfully.

  A darker shape appeared against the night, turning into a man as he walked closer. He had something bulky in each hand and when he came close Sabinus smelled the blood.

  ‘One got away,’ Ferox said as he dropped three severed heads onto the grass.

  ‘You’re getting slow, old man,’ Vindex told him.

  Ferox grunted. ‘No harm in letting one tell the story. Might make them cautious next time. He won’t be back tonight and there is no one else around. Still, be prudent to keep a good watch. Did we lose anyone?’

  One man was dead, the sentry wounded badly and there were a few scratches to men and horses, but it could have been worse. Ferox wished that he had a few dozen Silures to stalk the nights and make the enemy fear the darkness. Still, if they had faced thirty or forty of his fellow tribesmen then they would have lost many men, and most if not all of the horses would have been dead, crippled or stolen, leaving them with a long march to the fort, and at least one more night of murder, so that few if any would have made it back.

  The next morning the sentry was feverish, but clinging on and they rigged up a blanket on a couple of poles which could be dragged along by a horse. There was no sign of the enemy, apart from the three headless corpses of the men Ferox had killed. He had tied the heads to the front horns of his saddle, so that they dangled there as he rode, just like the heroes in the songs of the tribes. The Brigantes liked that, and he suspected that Vindex was feeding the stories about the skill and savagery of the Silures in the darkness, and most of all the centurion.

  Sabinus was fascinated by the sight of the heads bouncing as Ferox’s horse walked along. One had a truly ghastly wound that had destroyed the right eye. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, even in the arenas, but he had not had the courage to ask how it had been inflicted and wondered whether that had provoked the appalling cry of pain they had all heard. Ferox had scrubbed his hands when they came to a stream, without removing that much of the dark blood engrained in the nails of his right hand.

  ‘Daci,’ Ferox had said when Sabinus managed to ask about the man who had lost his eye. The head was bearded and had shaggy, but quite short fair hair. ‘Getae,’ Ferox had told him, lifting another with longer hair and a network of tiny dots tattooed on his forehead. ‘Probably Piephigi as they are face painters.’

  ‘What about him?’ Sabinus asked. The third head was older, thickly bearded and with long black hair.

  Ferox shrugged. ‘One of ours, once. Who knows? Maybe a Gaul or a German. Probably had a Dacian wife and children by now, and his own few fields to till.’

  ‘Poor fellow.’

  ‘Depends on your point of view,’ Ferox said. ‘But these were no bandits or even the warriors of a local chief – they were king’s men and that can only mean trouble for us.’

  ‘What about the tribune?’

  ‘What indeed? We could not catch him even if we wanted.’

  They saw no enemy for the first few hours, until Vindex and another of the Carvetii who had been riding as rearguard came up to join them.

  ‘I’ve seen them,’ Ferox said. ‘Three horsemen, sometimes a mile back, sometimes a little further.’

  ‘Shall we scrag ’em?’

  ‘Wouldn’t get close in the open. No, they’re showing themselves to us.’

  ‘Why?’ Sabinus asked. ‘Up to now they have been careful.’

  ‘They want us to believe that they are not afraid of us,’ Ferox spoke loudly.

  ‘And they are?’ Vindex sounded dubious.

  ‘Of course, we are Brigantes. If they do not fear that name now then they soon will,’ Ferox said and hoped that he could make it come true.

  That had been six days
ago and ever since then he had worked them even harder than before. More obstacles were dug in front of the ditches, and under Ephippus’ supervision they added to the ramparts and towers, mounting as many more ballistae as could be made to work, and protecting the positions around them. A high timber wall was made in front of the monâkon, so that it could lob missiles over, but would be hard for the enemy to hit. Ephippus experimented, painting markers to allow the engine to shoot without seeing the target as long as someone called orders down from the tower.

  The fort was stronger that it had been, and with more men to defend the long walls they had a better chance of holding on for a while. Yet unless Hadrian or someone else sent a big column, marching hard and quickly as soon as news reached the Danube of any attack, then it would not matter in the long run.

  Desertions, which had sunk to a trickle since Enica arrived, died away altogether in the days after they came back from escorting the tribune.

  ‘They like the tits on the flag,’ Vindex claimed. ‘And on the…’ He gave a big and obvious wink. ‘Never mind.’

  Ferox had to admit that through magic or charm the queen had changed the spirit of the Brigantes and even the other soldiers. Bran and Minura were her shadows, following her everywhere, their swords ready, and that gave him comfort. They both stood, with helmets and armour of polished scales, at the parade to wreath the standards. Claudia Enica for once was not armed, but while she wore the dress of a fine Roman lady she had her long hair unbound and falling around her shoulders. Ferox had to admit that it suited her. Seeing him staring at the vexillum with its bare-breasted goddess, she had for a moment glared in feigned disapproval.

  The parade was followed by sacrifices and a day of light duties, for there was no sense in exhausting the men too soon. A few patrols went out, but since the tribune had left and the night attack on their camp, he had changed the pattern. Unless they went wholly by a route in the open, then detachments going up the valley did not go as far as before. He did not have the strength to challenge the enemy too far from the fort and did not want to lose men here and there, or have the rest depressed by casualties. The price was not knowing so much about the enemy or what they were doing, and that bothered him, but he could see no other way.