The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Ferox gestured with his sword and walked towards the open gateway. Another dozen Dacians ran through and turned to the left, away from the fight, but someone else would have to deal with them. A man who looked like a leader was standing with his back to Ferox yelling to the men outside. Another was beside him, and he gaped when he saw the centurion and his men creeping out of the shadows. Ferox took another step and then stamped forward, lunging with his gladius beneath the neck guard of the leader and into his spine. An auxiliary came past and hacked at the other man, who parried with his shield high and Ferox had just enough time to rip his own blade free and stab underneath the shield into the warrior’s thigh. He fell, blood pulsing from the wound.

  A man appeared, his clothes and body aflame from oil, and he staggered through the gateway. As Ferox stepped into the opening the heat was appalling and it was amazing how much the fire had spread. More men were screaming as they burned, some rolling on the ground trying to beat out the flames. A bare-chested warrior came at him, falx held high and two-handed, and there was barely time to raise his shield before the weapon sliced down, breaking the bronze trim on the top edge of his shield and cutting down three inches into the wood. Ferox was swinging away and used the motion to stab forward into the warrior’s belly. He glanced back over his shoulder.

  ‘The gates! We need to close the gates.’ He took a step back, struggling to free his scutum from the falx as the warrior doubled over, clutching his stomach and trying to hold in his innards.

  Another step back and Ferox was between the gates. The falx at last dropped away and he had time to lift the shield which shook as a spear struck it. A warrior came at him, sword drawn, and this was one of the king’s men, but as he charged he ran into a spray of sand poured from above and yelped with surprise. Ferox stepped back one more time, trusting that his soldiers were covering his retreat and he hoped that no more sand would come in case it helped to put out the flames.

  Screaming, whether in rage or pain, the king’s man came on again, slamming the boss of his shield against Ferox’s scutum. The centurion staggered, but saw the man’s arm raised for a downward cut and jabbed forward at eye level. The Dacian went back, still screaming, and tripped over the legs of the warrior wounded in the belly.

  ‘Out the way, sir!’ a soldier yelled and Ferox moved to let them close the gates behind him.

  ‘The bar, quick!’ One of the others called as Ferox and the first man put their weight on the gates to hold them closed. Something struck the outside and Ferox jerked back, almost losing his balance, but his feet got a grip again and he leaned with all his weight. The other two had the longer section of the bar and lifted it towards the brackets.

  ‘Push, lad! Push!’ Ferox called as much to himself as the other man, and he turned his back against the wooden gate, feeling every muscle strain. The bar came down into one bracket, then the other and the pressure was gone.

  ‘Shields!’ he shouted, for the men with the bar had dropped theirs. ‘Get behind us!’ He and the other man went forward, for Dacians were turning, realising what had happened. Above the helmets and clashing weapons of the two lines, cavalrymen were walking their horses, lobbing javelins over the heads of the legionaries.

  Dacians were turning to face him, and one or two were coming towards him, until a deep voice shouted out a command. The enemy bunched together forming a rough circle. Maximus and five of his men came trotting up from the right, kicking their horses into a canter, and the circle was not yet ready and some of the king’s men flinched as the cavalry bore down. The Dacians opened up gaps wide enough to let them through, or were barged out of the way if they did not move fast enough. Maximus ran a man through with his spear, let the weapon fall with the dying warrior, and had time to draw his sword and hack down into a neck before he was through and out the other side. Another cavalryman darted his spear back and forth in quick, well-judged attacks, wounding three as he passed. The last horse in the group balked as a warrior stood firm. It reared, front hoofs kicking the Dacian and knocking him down, but the rider lost his seat and fell, screaming briefly as swords cut down.

  The Dacians stepped away from the legionaries, who let them go and panted as they struggled for breath. The deep voice was shouting again, and the warriors made a circle of shields facing outwards, two or three ranks deep. For the first time Ferox noticed that they carried a draco standard, like the ones some of the Roman cavalry had copied. Its bronze head was shaped like the gaping maw of a dragon and behind it hung a long red sock that would hiss and ripple in the wind when they ran. Now, it hung limp, but the leader was urging his men on and the shields were level and steady.

  Reserves were coming up on either side, and Ferox had to hope that there was no danger to the ramparts.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s kill these bastards!’

  XXIV

  Piroboridava

  Fourth day before the Kalends of June

  PISO STILL HAD a bandage around his head, but otherwise appeared unscathed. Ferox had watched the tribune ride slowly towards the fort, a warrior on either side of him and standard-bearer and man sounding an ox horn behind them. The young aristocrat kept his hands together close behind his horse’s neck, suggesting that they were tied.

  Sabinus was nervous. ‘It is not unknown for besiegers to execute or torture a captive in sight of the walls to persuade the defenders to surrender.’

  Ferox did not need to be told that, for he had seen Roman armies do the same thing more than once. He had not particularly liked Piso, and doubted that anyone would wish to give in merely to save the tribune from torment, but hoped that they would not have to watch. Sosius had hinted that there were doubts over the aristocrat’s loyalty and Lepidina told him the story of the father’s incompetent plot and exile. The family sounded more like a poor joke than a real threat to the emperor.

  ‘I do not like it,’ Claudia said. ‘And see the rider on the left?’

  Ferox had already recognised Ivonercus. ‘If they are talking, then they are not attacking,’ he said. It was four days after the big assault and during those days the archers and engines had continued to nibble away at the defenders. Twenty-three men had died during the assault, almost half in killing the Dacians surrounded and shut inside the fort when Ferox and the others had closed the gates. Half a dozen more had been killed by missiles or succumbed to their wounds in the last few days. Four times as many were wounded, not counting the flesh wounds and scratches that many more had taken. Sulpicia Lepidina had run out of bandages and begun cutting up spare clothes, including some of her own.

  ‘If it was good enough for the Lord Trajan, then it is good enough for me,’ she said, referring to a much trumpeted incident in the first war when the emperor had given spare cloaks and tunics to the surgeons to help them cope with a deluge of wounded. The Dacian skill with bows, and their fondness for cutting swords like the sica and the great falx always meant that there were plenty of wounded. As usual the lady had made no fuss, but simply got on with the task at hand, but the story had spread nevertheless. Ferox heard men joking that they should all stick their legs up over the parapet and take wounds, because that way Lepidina, Claudia and all the other women might end up naked.

  Spirits remained high, buoyed by the victory, and managed to cope with the slaughter of half the horses, which were butchered and the meat either cooked for issue or salted. With more than a hundred animals that was a big task, and at the same time work parties laboured to build Ephippus’ acropolis, and to clear up after the fighting, whether gathering arrows and other usable material, or lifting the dead Dacians and tipping them over the ramparts to join the hundreds of corpses left by the attack. The enemy made no request for a truce to gather up their fallen, so most of the bodies lay where they were, faces changing from the odd, wax-like pallor of the newly dead into a deep red brown as they bloated and the stomachs started to burst open. The stench was awful, clawing at the throat like something physical, but at least it was outside
and from the enemy.

  They had burned their own corpses, using a patch of open ground where one of the granaries had once stood, and a pyre carefully planned by Ephippus to produce the most heat. Claudia Enica told her tribesmen that although this was not their way, this was what must be done, but before the thing was done relatives or someone from their clan snipped hair and cut the little finger from each body, so these could be kept and taken back to their homeland when all this was over. Ferox admired their optimism, and at times like this was glad that his wife was here, for she inspired them in a way he knew he could not. Like a family, the Brigantes seemed to forget their grievances with each other as they united against the bigger enemy. Even the gruffest and most hostile now grinned when Ferox appeared, for he was the queen’s consort and he was their war chief for the moment. She had proven her courage as well as her right to rule, leading a charge that killed or chased out all Dacians who managed to come through a hole knocked in one of the east gates. Whatever Rome said, she was their queen, descendant of Cartimandua, and Ferox was her chosen husband. So they would serve him and fight by his side, at least until this was over.

  Ferox wished he knew whether Hadrian or anyone else was mustering a force to relieve them, but in his heart he doubted that help would ever come. Strangely, such thoughts did not depress him, for there was always so much to do.

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ Vindex said whenever they met, while Claudia would shake her head on the rare times that they were alone and say much the same thing. In truth there was a simplicity about it all, and trying to outwit the enemy, anticipating and blocking his next move, kept his mind far too busy to brood.

  Ferox did his best to give the garrison some rest, but there were always too many things to do. Clearing up took time and effort, preparing the pyre and the corpses for cremation took more, and all had to be done before they started slaughtering horses and mules because he did not want the smell of bodies and of cooking meat to mingle in the air and stick in men’s minds. The live horses still needed grooming and care, and they would only live for as long as there was fodder and no need for their meat. Weapons needed cleaning, blades needed sharpening, armour and helmets to be greased or repaired, as did the engines, and as many new missiles made as they could. Some fatigues could not be abandoned, so men were tasked with cleaning the latrines, replacing the sponges and water. Sickness would come in time, as it always did, for the evil spirits that caused it could sense weakness in a man, but he would do his best to delay the inevitable. All of these things needed to be done, and all the while the enemy needed to be fought. Apart from the near constant deluge of missiles, now and then a few score would rush forward with ladders, so men needed to be on the walls all the time, and although they had not yet tried it, he feared another night attack, so kept strong detachments on duty throughout the hours of darkness. If the men were worked hard, then he had to work harder still, so there was little rest and when he took a break he tended to fall asleep as soon as he lay down. Queen’s consort or not, there had been no opportunity for consorting.

  ‘What are you smirking at?’ Claudia Enica’s sharp tone snapped him back to the present.

  ‘Sorry, miles away.’ He was getting tired and he knew it, sensing the same in all those around him. That was the problem. With all their numbers the enemy could rest and the garrison could not, so it would be worn away like a cliff by the sea. The only consolation was that they were doing the job and holding the Dacian army here. Ferox was surprised that they had not tried to sneak heavy supplies over the bridge, or taken the bulk across under cover of their attack. For the last two days he had not even ordered the monâkon to lob an occasional stone as reminder of what they could do, half fearing that he might remind the enemy leaders of why they had come here. He wondered whether the fort had become a challenge for them in its own right, rather than a distraction.

  The riders were close now.

  ‘May we approach?’ The Dacian leading them called out. It was a different herald to last time, a little older and more slightly built.

  ‘I would speak with you, Flavius Ferox?’ Piso shouted out. ‘Will you come down so that you can see my face and know that I speak the truth – no more, no less?’ The Dacian seemed surprised at this, but said nothing.

  ‘Can we not speak from here?’

  ‘I am your senior, centurion, by birth and in the army. It is not fitting that I look up at you.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Claudia whispered.

  ‘I thought that was why you married me,’ he replied, before raising his voice. ‘Sabinus, make sure the scorpio is ready. If there is the slightest sign of treachery then don’t let anyone escape.’

  Vepoc winked. ‘Even you, lord?’

  ‘Use your judgement.’ There were archers lurking in the outer ditch, although none that close to the road or the heralds. Ferox could not see any sign of an impending attack. Still, it was difficult to be sure. Over the last few nights the Dacians had thrown up a rampart less than a hundred paces from the wall, just beyond the remnants of the lilliae, all of which they had filled in. There could be men lurking behind this shelter, ready to pour out of the gaps left in the wall as soon as the gate was opened. If so, then they were unlikely to get there before it was closed again, whatever happened to him.

  By the time the gate opened and Ferox walked out, the tribune had dismounted. After some uncertainty, the Dacian and Ivonercus did the same. Piso was wearing a cuirass and the rest of his uniform apart from his helmet, but the scabbard on his left hip was empty.

  ‘It is good to see you well, my lord,’ Ferox said. After all this was diplomacy, so the truth was neither here nor there. ‘I trust your wound is healing?’

  ‘It is.’ The young aristocrat coughed nervously. ‘I am sent to ask you to yield the fort and march away with all your men.’ The words were precise and obviously rehearsed. As obvious was the tone of sarcasm. ‘I am informed that you have already refused these generous terms, but am to ask you to reconsider. There is no need for anyone else to die in this place.

  ‘There, that is done,’ Piso said, ‘and I have kept my word to my charming hosts. Now, give me your sword.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Trust me, this is necessary. Your fellows up there can kill me with ease if that is what they want.’ He glanced up. ‘Jupiter’s holy toga, there’s a woman up there. It is true then? Such a pretty little thing too. Your sword, man.’

  ‘I will not yield, sir.’

  ‘It is an order. You, Briton, obey me!’ Piso barked the words and Ferox thought that they were directed at him until Ivonercus drew his slim spatha.

  ‘This is a parley!’ the Dacian said, stepping in front of Ferox, and then grunted as Ivonercus drove the sword into his stomach, the sharp point going between the scales and thrusting up. On the gate the scorpio cracked and its bolt whipped through the air, just missing the top of the Brigantian’s helmet and burying itself in the chest of the standard-bearer’s horse. The beast screamed, and rolled over, throwing its rider.

  ‘Come on!’ Piso was already running for the gate. There were Dacian shouts, anger mixed with shock, and arrows came, but struck the riderless horses instead of their targets. Ivonercus twisted his blade free and then stabbed the writhing Dacian in the throat.

  Ferox dashed back to the gate. Piso was hit beneath the knee by an arrow and fell in a heap. Ferox was close behind, so close that he jumped over the tribune rather than trying to stop. He kept going, the narrowly open gate just a few paces away.

  ‘Centurion!’ Piso screamed at him. ‘Help me!’

  Ferox hesitated, the temptation strong to leave them both to the Dacians. Horns were blowing and men shouting as hundreds of warriors streamed through the gaps in their wall. Breaking a truce was a great impiety. Silures respected few things, and liked nothing better than to deceive an enemy and hurt him without him realising what was happening, but even they felt that a curse would fall on anyone breaking a truce.
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  Ivonercus spun around as an arrow from a belly bow snapped the rings on his mail and dug into his shoulder. He dropped his sword and staggered on.

  The habit of duty was too strong and Ferox turned around, lifted the tribune and swung him onto his back.

  ‘I’m not your shield, you bastard!’ the tribune snarled, but though arrows came close none touched them and the only one to hit Ivonercus bounced back from his armour. Then they were through the gate and it was slamming shut behind them. Ferox dropped the tribune, none too gently, and ran for the stairs leading onto the rampart. ‘Sound the alarm,’ he shouted.

  It was not a planned attack, well thought out and hitting the fort from several directions, but a simple outpouring of rage. Hundreds and then thousands of warriors rushed from cover or came from the camp and hurled themselves at the walls. There were fewer ladders than in the last attack, but every time the men around them were shot down more appeared and soon half a dozen rose against the front rampart. Ferox cut down one warrior who had pushed back the defenders and managed to leap onto the walkway, but few others made it that far. The Dacians died, well over a hundred of them, and many more moaned as they crawled or were carried back when the fury at last was spent. Seven of the garrison were killed to inflict this carnage and thirty more wounded, while they threw or shot far more missiles than usual, for there was a frenzy about the fighting on both sides.

  Piso tried to make light of it all, when Ferox went to visit him in the hospital. ‘If I had known that I would be ministered to by such a fair doctor, then I believe I would have stayed here rather than going to Sarmizegethusa,’ he said, beaming at Sulpicia Lepidina, before taking her hand and kissing it. ‘Hygaia herself could hardly be more kind.

  ‘And I would not have gone, nor trusted to those Dacian bastards – oh, my apologies, lady – if I had known what they were like. Decebalus took me prisoner during a truce, so I wanted to repay the compliment. Oh, and as I have said, that noble fellow, your husband, was quite well when last I saw him. A hostage it is true, but that means that he and the others will be treated well.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor Longinus, but then I suppose you have not heard that he is dead by poison. Did not want the emperor to worry on his behalf, so they say.’