‘See what you can do,’ Ferox told them. It was late, and although the arrows still thudded into the ramparts, there was no sign of an attack, and thankfully no sign of the fog that might cover one. ‘I reckon they’ll throw up some works tonight and prepare their engines, then attack tomorrow or the next day.’ He ordered most of the men to rest, but everyone knew the alarm calls and where to take their place. After going through everything one more time to make sure that all was clear, he made a final tour of the ramparts and then headed for the principia. The children were asleep, Sulpicia Lepidina visiting the hospital once again, and no sign of Claudia Enica, so Ferox asked Philo for some cold food and told the man then to get to bed. For once, Philo obeyed without prolonged resistance, leaving him to eat in silence.
‘On your own again,’ Claudia had changed from her tunic, boots and armour into one of her silken dresses.
‘I was hoping that I would not be, my queen.’
The alarm bell rang, faint, but unmistakable.
Ferox bounded to his feet, taking a bite of meat as he ran for the door.
‘I was going to be gentle,’ Claudia Enica said as he passed, and then yelped because he slapped her on the behind. ‘Pig!’ she called and then followed, hitching up her dress.
By the time Ferox was out in the street the bell had stopped, but he could see torches and activity at the east gate, not far away to his right. There was no sound, no roar of attackers, but a soldier was running towards him.
‘Wait,’ he said to the queen as she came outside.
‘Sir!’ The soldier saw him. It was one of the veterans of I Minervia, his arms pumping and legs pounding yet still moving at a slow, almost stately pace. ‘There’s a peasant turned up at the gate. Says he’s a freedman of the legatus and has news.’
‘Sosius?’ Claudia asked.
‘That’s right, lady. What he says he’s called anyroad. Says he was here before as well. Sneaked up to the gate and then called out bold as brass. Weren’t going to let him in, but he knew your name, sir, and by that time there were arrows flying, but no one too close, so we let him in.’
Sosius was filthy, unshaven and had a wild glint in his eyes. His left leg was bound up and he limped as he walked. Wine steadied him, and some food restored him, although it was still a while before he was willing to talk. Ferox sensed the veils coming back down across the man’s soul.
‘The Legatus Longinus is dead,’ he told them at last, as they sat in the principia. ‘He drank poison rather than let himself be used as a hostage.’ Ferox did not ask the obvious question of how a prisoner had obtained the means of killing himself, or voice his suspicion that there was more to it than simple suicide. ‘I got the draught for him,’ Sosius went on. ‘That was one more reason for slipping away, but Decebalus also had me carry a letter for Trajan in which he sets out peace terms, so I was able to ride out openly. That is until the legatus was dead and the king got angry.’
‘And the other officers?’ Ferox asked.
‘Safe. Prisoners, but the big prize was always Longinus. The Lord Trajan might have pause if the life of a distinguished senator was threatened – but some young sprig of a tribune, let alone equestrians…’
‘They are ten to a denarius,’ Claudia agreed, her fingers feeling the ring marking her own membership of the order. Women did not usually wear this badge of rank. ‘But the rest are safe?’
‘Were when I left, and Decebalus isn’t vicious for the sake of it. Especially when he is hoping to win back some land and then talk.’
Ferox glanced at Claudia, who nodded. ‘I shall see whether the Lady Sulpicia is still awake and give her the news.’
‘Why did you come here?’ Ferox asked after the lady had gone.
Sosius sniffed. ‘Nowhere else to go. My horse went lame, then some warriors found me and chased me. Got as far as the forest before the beast gave out altogether. Managed to deal with the two lads who followed, but they stuck me in the leg and I’d lost all my food. Your fort was the only sanctuary in reach. I can’t see Decebalus being too pleased with me.
‘But look, I could not get too close, but I came around the edge of their camp. Heard them talking about a big attack tomorrow.’
‘Then you are just in time,’ Ferox told him.
Piroboridava
The next day
BRASUS NEVER TRUSTED a servant to sharpen his weapons, so had spent a long while sitting in his tent and honing the falx and his sica with a whetstone. The noise of scraping, and low murmurs of conversation were all that could be heard in this part of the sprawling camp, although now and then there came drunken singing from the Bastarnae. Working on the blades was a simple task, and his mind wandered less than when he had spent all those hours in the cave. For a while at least, he had forgotten the humiliations of the last few days.
Diegis and Rholes had said little as he told them of the failure of his attack on the fort. Neither had criticised him openly, but they had made him report in the presence of dozens of others, and not simply pileati and men of worth, but whoever happened to be riding in their train when he had gone to meet the advancing army. Many sneered, and he heard mockery that was spoken in a low voice, but not hidden, nor reprimanded by the commanders. Brasus had failed, and he knew it, but only by a whisker and they had managed to burn more of the enemy stores.
Brasus had told them that the Romans had an engine capable of reaching the bridge, for his scouts had seen the defenders practising with it some days before. No one had believed him, and everyone seemed to blame him when the stones came slamming down around the bridge, smashing the waggons as they crossed, shattering men and beasts as if they were clay toys. He had suggested that they try going during the hours of darkness and he had been wrong about that. Who could ever have guessed that the enemy was able to guide their missiles with such uncanny precision? Yet he still felt that the leaders had given in too easily and ought to have sent the mules one at a time and then the carts slowly. A few might have perished, but the Romans surely would not realise what was happening every time? In two or three nights, they might have got enough of the essential food and equipment across and the bulk of the army could have pressed on.
Diegis would not hear of such a plan, and Rholes was willing to agree. The older warrior was paler than Brasus remembered, slower of speech, and seemed far older and less well than he remembered.
‘The Roman filth have defied us,’ Diegis declared at the great council. ‘So they must surrender or be crushed. Now that they have seen the greatness of our numbers, they will surely give in.’
Brasus had thought that Rholes was about to say something, but after a moment the old warlord simply waved his hand, a sign of agreement among his folk. A woman mopped his brow, leaning against the chair on which he sat. She was at least thirty, a pleasant face fading with the rigours of the years, and her manner almost maternal as she fussed over Rholes. She was also the only woman he had brought with him, a far cry from his troop of companions in past campaigns. Brasus knew that he should not hope for such things, but he could not help feeling that it would have been better if Rholes still had the vigour to require more entertainment.
The commanders chose him to summon the Romans to surrender.
‘Because you know more about these people and this place than any of us,’ Diegis said to him, and then also told him precisely what he should say. ‘If they come out we can always decide then whether or not to kill them,’ the commander had added. Neither in speech nor actions did he seem to belong to the pure. ‘Now run along, and redeem yourself.’
That first direct reproof stung, all the more because it came across as casual disdain rather than based on any thought. Brasus had not expected the Romans to surrender, yet felt that the army was watching, disapproving and judging him instead of the enemy as he rode forward on that dog of a horse. The Romans mocked and laughed, and he could not help wondering whether they realised that he was the man who had attacked them. He remembered the centurion’s voic
e from that day in the forest when he had hidden from them. He had at least expected more respect from Ferox, if indeed his enemy knew that Brasus was the man who had almost taken his fort. Then there had been the filthy banner, and that pale, flame-haired and remarkably beautiful woman staring down, armed as if for war. Ivonercus had spoken of the queen in words of hate and fear, yet never of her loveliness. Brasus was shocked to see her because he had dreamed of that face many times, since he was a child and did not understand why. She was perfect and she was terrifying like some spirit or demon of the air. He had lost his temper, less from the mockery for all its sting, but because this was a vision and he did not know what it meant as wild desire fought with cold fear.
Diegis was not welcoming, asking whether he had said the words as instructed, and then whether he would fight as well as he had raged.
‘You will lead your warriors in an attack to distract the enemy,’ he said. ‘Against the same gate where you broke in last time. At least you can find that. Draw their eyes to you, even if you have no chance of getting in a second time.’
‘If it please my noble lord, let none think in that way.’ Rholes’ voice was louder and firmer than before. ‘What is meant as a diversion can win the day. And I feel it better that Brasus take men against the east gate. The west is strongest in daylight, and we shall need the sun’s smile to guide us and let us use our numbers. If we are to serve the king, this place must fall swiftly.’
Diegis breathed in deeply, his small eyes flicking from side to side, never looking directly at his fellow commander. ‘Do you have something in mind?’
‘I do, my lord, I do.’
Brasus listened as the plan was explained and felt his spirits rising. Almost in front of his very eyes life stirred inside Rholes, so that when he stood, shaking off the arm of his woman, he stood taller and straighter.
‘We will attack at noon,’ he declared in a voice that would have required a bolder man than Diegis to contradict. ‘But we must not let them realise that. We will form half the army ready before dawn and show every sign of attacking, for we want them on their walls so that we can kill them. Our engines and our archers will already be in place.’ He turned to Brasus. ‘It will be hard, but you must get one of the three mina stone throwers in place within reach of your gateway during the night. You may have as many men as you need. Its task will be to smash the gate down if it can – or at least make the Romans fear that this will happen.’
‘My lord, it shall be done.’
‘Good,’ Rholes said. ‘Throughout the morning we will shoot at the enemy, pressing forward ever closer, so that he must reveal himself or let our work parties tear up his stakes and fill in his ditches. When they reveal themselves we kill them or wound them or at the very least tire them.
‘The men who face them first will not lead the attack. Instead, the rest of the army, rested and fed, will take their place. That will require close supervision to prevent a shambles, so I would suggest that you, my Lord Diegis, and I supervise. The main attack will be at their front gate, using ladders and the ram. The second attack on the east gate led by Brasus – I fear you will get no rest, my boy, but I need you – with more ladders. At the other gates we will hold back, for the Romans are fond of sallying out and if they do I want men ready to smash them into pieces.’
The plan was longer, each chieftain told where to be and what to do, and Brasus felt much better as he listened to Rholes filling them all with confidence. Yet the woman’s face kept coming into his mind, and sometimes she transformed into the naked goddess of that flag, beckoning to him, enticing and mocking at the same time. The Roxolani and other Sarmatians had women leaders, he knew that, and he had encountered one or two, always finding them strange creatures, neither man nor woman. He had heard that there was one with the fifty or so Roxolani who had come to join the army, less than a tenth or twentieth of the number hoped for. The rest had gone off with their loot and had no interest in more fighting, at least for a while.
‘Are you listening, boy?’ Rholes asked.
‘Yes, my lord.’ Brasus’ wandering thoughts had not quite taken over his mind. ‘You were asking how many men I will need to move the catapult. I should guess at least one hundred, with yokes of oxen and an engineer skilled in such things.’
‘Sounds about right.’
Brasus wondered whether a ballista, even a large one, could smash through a well-built gate. He could not set it up within easy reach of a bow, and could only protect its crew a little. ‘I should like any sacks we have or can make,’ he said. ‘Filled with earth we can pile them in front of the machine.’
‘Good idea.’
The queen’s face came back to haunt him, although she was not his queen or anyone of note, merely a Roman lapdog of a faraway and unimportant tribe. Like all her kind she was a drinker of wine, impure of thought and body. Yet she had power, a strange power that was trying to reach him. Ivonercus had spoken of her as a user of magic, and all his doubts had now fallen away. A witch queen from a dark tale and yet so fair of face.
Brasus knew the strength of their army and the vulnerability of the fort, so frail compared to a proper stone-built fortress on a high peak. The plan was good, Rholes filling them all with certainty of victory. Yet in his heart he doubted.
XXIII
Piroboridava
Eighth day before the Kalends of June
MEN WERE STARTING to die. Ferox leaned hard against the parapet as two Brigantes carried a third in a blanket along to where the steps led down. The warrior had the broken stump of a ballista bolt sticking from his chest. It had pierced his mail shirt, and Ferox suspected that the wound would claim his life because each breath came as a desperate gasp.
‘Watch out!’
Ferox ducked at the warning and felt an arrow flick through the crest of his helmet. It was another new one, hastily repaired from pieces in the fabricae, so that there was one bare bronze and one tinned cheek piece on the iron bowl. It was a little small, leaving a clear line on his forehead because his wool hat kept slipping up.
‘Thanks,’ he said to the auxiliary who had shouted out. The man grinned, then bobbed down when another arrow hissed by.
There was still no sign of the main assault, but all around the fort archers and a few slingers were pressing ever closer. Some worked in pairs, with one using a shield to shelter the one who did the shooting. Others crouched in the ditches, although their V-shape meant that they only got some protection. That did not matter much for the men with the belly-bows – the name Ephippus used for the handheld ballista-like weapons used by some of the Dacians. Further back, there were more archers, many lobbing arrows high without worrying much about aim because chance was bound to find them a few victims, and the artillery. All told, Ferox had counted at least a score of engines, more than half scorpiones or of a similar size. The rest were bigger, of a far greater range of sizes than the army normally used. At first the shooting was wild, and there were ironic cheers when some stones and bolts struck the ground short of the walls, and even more when an archer had to scuttle aside, dropping his bow and scattering the arrows from his bag as he avoided a bouncing stone. Ferox guessed that the crews did not get much practise, but as the morning passed they were getting plenty and learning all the time.
Ferox pressed on.
‘Hot work, sir,’ a veteran of I Minervia said as yet another arrow thunked into his big, rectangular scutum. There must have been at least twenty shafts sticking out from its front already, as the soldier hefted a rock in his hand, waited and then flung. ‘That’ll learn him!’ Two more arrows struck the shield so that it quivered, but the three layers of wood encased in leather let only the merest tip of one poke through.
‘Keep it up,’ Ferox told him and went on. Another veteran had a shield almost as covered in broken stumps and shafts. He stood up in the gap between the raised sections of the parapet, took aim and sent a light javelin thrumming down. An arrow’s point rang as it struck the iron boss and bo
unced away. Then a bigger, much faster bolt slammed into the scutum, ripping it from the veteran’s grip so that it fell away and slid down the bank at the back of the rampart. The man ducked, wringing his left hand.
‘You all right?’ Ferox asked.
The veteran was bearded like many older soldiers. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘No. Bet the army will charge me for that!’
‘Typical army. They’d charge you for your own spit if they could.’
‘And make you get a receipt each time you go to the latrine!’ The jokes were old, very old, but there was a comfort in the familiar. ‘Yes, it’s those bastard officers that cause all the trouble.’
‘I know,’ Ferox said. ‘Can’t trust any of them.’
There was a savage crack as the top of the parapet above the man was struck by a great stone, breaking the wood and throwing up splinters.
Ferox winced. ‘I think we’ve upset them.’
‘Any chance of a month’s leave, sir?’
Ferox crouched as he went past. ‘Sorry, lad, you know the army, put it in writing or bribe some centurion.’
Ahead of him, a Brigantian rose to throw a javelin just in time to meet another great stone, ripping his head from his shoulders as missile and head kept going to land down in the intervallum. The rest of the body stood for what seemed an age, blood jetting high to spray over the other men sheltering around him, until slowly the corpse fell.
‘When are they coming, lord?’ asked another Brigantian, as he wiped blood from his lined face. He was one of the men from the mines, and that had aged him. He was wearing a helmet today, but underneath his head was wholly bald, which made him stand out for he was the only bald man among the Brigantes. ‘When are they coming?’
‘Soon,’ Ferox said. ‘Just wait and we will all be avenged.’
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