The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the sentry responded, obviously having heard all this before. ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘I do say so, Maternus, I do indeed, and so will these fine Britons when they have been here as long as us.’ He beamed a broad smile. The bandit leered back, but then the rogue’s face was locked in a permanent leer, not helped by his prominent teeth.

  ‘We will, will we?’ The Latin was clear, with the clipped accent common in the northern provinces.

  ‘No doubt about it,’ Sabinus assured him. ‘Meaning no disrespect to the woods and forests of your native lands, my dear fellows – or to the sprites and nymphs who dwell in them – but they are as far away now as my own homeland, and might as well be in India as far as we are concerned.

  ‘We are here, my friends, at Piroboridava, and we are alone. People don’t live up here – at least no one with any sense. And they don’t pass this way if they can help, least of all in winter. So all this garrison sees are those trees. Day after day, you look out and there they are. It’s the closest we get to company.’

  ‘Company?’ One of the clean-shaven Britons had spoken. The man was frowning, and appeared almost on edge. Sabinus struggled to recall the man’s outlandish name. Mobacus or Molacus? Something uncouth, he was sure.

  ‘Yes, my dear fellow.’ That seemed wiser than risking getting it wrong. Sabinus beamed at him and the others, resigned to the lack of interest shown by Ferox and making the most of the rest as the only audience on offer. ‘Although you may not believe it, you will grow fond of those trees. Once you have been here a month you will surely grow to love them. When you have been here two months you will start to talk to them.’

  Ferox, knowing what was coming, had to force himself to keep staring out, apparently without a care in the world.

  ‘Talk to them?’ That was Molacus, always too quick to speak and too ready to show scorn.

  ‘Most certainly,’ Sabinus said, enjoying his little game. Ferox could imagine the centurion’s serious expression. ‘You will indeed talk to them – all of us do.’ He paused, drawing out the moment. ‘But it is only after you have been here three months that the trees begin to answer.’

  There was an amused snort from Vindex, prompting a delighted chuckle from Sabinus, and at long last the other two joined in. The sentries were not officers, and were not involved, and like Ferox they must have heard this so many times before. It was an old joke, even by army standards, told of countless forts and outposts dotted around the empire, and sometimes it was sand dunes, mountain tops or even sheep instead of trees. He let himself smile, out of nostalgia as much as anything else, then saw the movement beyond the bridge and grinned in satisfaction. They were coming and soon he would know.

  ‘Riders, sir!’ Maternus shouted. ‘Two, no, three of them, leading another pair of horses.’

  Ferox stood up straight and faced back towards the others.

  ‘Yours, sir?’ Sabinus asked.

  ‘Vindex?’ Ferox already knew the answer, but needed to play his part.

  Vindex squinted, shading his eyes. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘It’s Ivonercus and the other lads. Coming slow, so maybe the mare is still lame. … Could just be the ice though.’

  ‘Wise to be careful.’ Ferox smiled. ‘Now, my dear Sabinus, perhaps we could take a look at the ditches.’

  ‘The ditches, sir?’ The centurion had hoped that the new arrivals had already seen all that they wanted so that he could escort Ferox to his quarters and then return to his own.

  ‘The ditches,’ Ferox repeated. ‘I had better see all the defences of my new post. And perhaps we will stroll down to the bridge as well.’

  Sabinus led the way, hoping that his disappointment did not show. They went down the two ladders, then out onto the main rampart and down the stairs. The fort’s defences were of earth and timber rather than turf, no doubt because the grass nearby was thin and the earth brittle, while the woods that so fascinated the centurion were handy. There were smells of any army base, of horses and sweat, damp leather and wood, overlaid with smoke. Everything was familiar to Ferox or anyone else who had soldiered for even a short time, not simply the scents and the sounds, but the layout. As they came down onto the flat they could see straight up the main street to the principia and other key buildings, just as you would anywhere else. Army bases tended to be almost, but not quite identical, and from Ferox’s experience the similarities could make it harder to remember the differences. Part of his mind was trying to settle the plan in his memory. That would only matter if he was wrong or if he was right, and survived the rest of the day.

  The right-hand gate was open, so they went that way. Ferox glanced back when they were outside, at the big painted sign between the two arches announcing that the praesidium had been built by a vexillation of Legio I Minervia and another from II Adiutrix. He wondered whether this was a good omen. The men of the Second had built the tiny outpost in northern Britannia from which he had acted as regionarius for the best part of a decade. All in all it had been a happy, simpler time, left to his own devices to keep peace in his region. Still, the legionaries had made a shoddy job there, and he had to hope that they had been more diligent here.

  ‘You are no stranger to this part of the world, I am told?’ Sabinus once again tried to make conversation. They had to walk carefully, because the track was uneven where deep ruts had frozen solid. Someone had not bothered to maintain it properly before the winter freeze and that was sloppy.

  ‘It was a long time ago, when I was new to the army.’ Ferox felt a little guilty for his coldness towards the man. Sabinus seemed a decent officer and his eagerness to leave this place was obvious, which made it unfortunate that Ferox was carrying orders that would keep him here for a good while.

  ‘Is it true that you were at Tapae with Fuscus?’

  Ferox nodded.

  Sabinus searched for the right words. ‘That must have been rough?’

  A commander killed along with most of his army, Ferox thought, yes, I guess you could say that. He had been in charge of the scouts and had tried to warn Fuscus, but no one had listened until it was too late. He had got away, with his own men and as many others as he could gather, just as he had got away a year earlier when the legate of Moesia had got himself chopped to pieces, and then a couple of years on when another legion marched to disaster. A philosopher, and for all that it was unlikely now a very good friend, on listening to the tale of his career suggested that it was proof of remarkable luck, or perhaps that the gods enjoyed watching him squirm. Ferox smiled at the memory, which pleased Sabinus, who took on most of the conversation as they walked past the double ditches, answering questions about the recent war against the Dacians.

  ‘Well, I missed it, just my luck,’ the centurion explained. ‘Got accepted by the army and posted to Minervia in the last weeks, but did not get here until it was all over.’

  ‘Any trouble since?’ Ferox asked, half listening. The ditches were in pretty good order, with only a little rubbish and spoil at the bottom. A day’s graft would clear that out. He was trying not to stare at the horsemen, who were now a quarter of a mile away, still coming on slowly. The riderless horses were not a good sign.

  ‘No, not really. As I say, this is a quiet spot. The local Dacians are the Saldense, but they mainly live lower down. Hardly anyone winters up here. Come the spring and summer we will see the herdsmen arrive, travellers on the road, and even a few hunting parties of Sarmatians. The game is good around here.’

  Sabinus nodded at the lone auxiliary who stood as picket beyond the ditches. That was regulation outside every base, set down a century ago by the divine Augustus, although far older than that. The rules said that there should be a dozen or more on duty outside the main gates of a fort this size, but it was rarely enforced, especially when things were quiet.

  ‘One man can see as well as twenty,’ Sabinus said, as if reading his thoughts.

  ‘True enough.’ Ferox could not help wishing that they had stuck to the r
ules. Still, perhaps it was better that way. He had to give them their chance. ‘So the camp was built during the fighting?’ he asked, continuing to stroll down towards the main road and the bridge, and forcing Sabinus to follow. There were rows of stakes and pits in front of the ditches, all suggesting that there had once been a real prospect of attack.

  ‘Yes,’ Sabinus said. ‘In the second campaign of our Lord Trajan, he sent a column this way, and another bigger one to the east, heading for the pass of the Red Tower. They had to storm a couple of strongholds as well as drive in bands of enemy. This place was built to store the supplies they might need and then care for all the casualties. Those Dacian castles are a bitch to take, as I’m sure you know. Hence our big hospital and all those granaries.’

  Ferox nodded. The buildings had been one of the most striking peculiarities of the base, especially because they were half empty. He stopped for a moment. They were half way to the bridge, and he noticed that the riders had reined in and were waiting on the far side. Well, that seemed to settle it.

  ‘Vindex, perhaps you would see what is keeping Ivonercus and get his news. I can’t see anyone following them, but you never know.’

  ‘Lazy bugger,’ the bandit snorted, leaving Sabinus unsure whether he meant the rider or his commander, but since Ferox did not make a fuss he was not about to interfere.

  ‘Your bath house is finished?’ Ferox asked as the lanky Vindex trudged away through the four-inch deep snow. The long building was over to the right, close to the river but some way from the bridge and the centurion turned to face it.

  Sabinus gave a wry smile. ‘Almost. Everything is taking much longer to dry in this cold. They say in another week they’ll be able to light the fires for the first time. Not that it will do us much good, but your lads ought to enjoy it.’

  ‘Don’t move, centurion!’ Sabinus gasped as he felt the point of a sword pressing into his side where his cloak had fallen back. He was wearing mail, but the tip was already inside a ring and a strong thrust would punch through. ‘Say nothing and you will live.’ It was the Briton Mobacus or whatever the barbarian was called. The other man had his sword pressed against Ferox.

  ‘Take out your sword and drop it. Slowly mind,’ the other decurion said.

  ‘You too, sir. Nice and easy,’ Molacus added. ‘No fuss, no sudden moves.’

  ‘Better do as they say,’ Ferox said.

  Sabinus wondered if this was some strange joke. It seemed too bizarre to be anything else. The one called Vindex was still plodding down to the bridge and did not appear to have noticed.

  Sabinus’ gladius grated on the metal mouth of his scabbard as he drew it, holding the pommel with just his finger and thumb. Ferox’s sword, one of the longer, old fashioned types, dropped to the ground first, so he felt no shame in letting his own blade go.

  ‘And the pugio. Gently now.’

  ‘I don’t carry one,’ Sabinus said. ‘Now just what—’ He stopped as the sword was pressed harder. Glancing nervously to the side, he saw Ferox slide an army issue dagger from his right hip and drop it.

  ‘Do what we say and it will all be fine,’ Molacus said.

  ‘This is absurd,’ Sabinus snapped until the point was pushed in just a little more. His side started to ache from the pressure.

  ‘Sir?’ The soldier on picket duty called, no doubt wondering what was happening.

  ‘Taranis!’ Molacus had noticed that Vindex had stopped and had glanced back at them.

  ‘No need to harm the centurion,’ Ferox said, his words steady. ‘You’ve got to go over the rampart now anyway and one more witness won’t matter. Your oath was for vengeance, not murder.’

  ‘As long as he does what he’s told,’ Molacus said and then added something more in a language Sabinus did not understand. He gulped, but the point of the sword drew back a fraction. Sabinus wanted to ask again what all this was about, but his throat felt so dry that he doubted the words would come.

  ‘We must do it now!’ the one behind Ferox said. Vindex was walking back towards them. Behind him, the riders kicked their horses to move, but they were still a hundred yards away from the warrior.

  Ferox sighed. ‘At least let me face you,’ he said. ‘We let your king die as a warrior.’ He stepped away from the decurion, who let him go. Ferox turned very deliberately, and his voice was resigned. ‘And I’ll make it easy.’ He unfastened the knot holding together the cheek pieces of his helmet. ‘Sabinus, you will obey my orders. When all is done let these men go.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘And tell your men to do the same.’ Ferox lifted his helmet off his head, taking the woolly hat he wore inside with it. He held the iron helmet in both hands, twisting it round. ‘Only just bought this,’ he said ruefully and grinned at the decurion facing him. ‘Waste of money, eh?’

  Sabinus felt the sword pulled away from him and let out a long breath. No one protested when he edged away, and he saw that Molacus was watching Ferox, his sword held in a low guard.

  ‘Can I help, my lord?’ The sentry called, closer to them now. Vindex had started running, and was clumsily drawing his sword as he tried not to slip. Behind him the riders were closing, one ahead of the others.

  ‘I’d rather not kneel,’ Ferox told them. ‘And I’d be obliged if you do a neat job. Just like I’ve trained you.’

  The one facing him licked his lips as he pulled his arm back, sword out straight, ready to lunge at Ferox’s face.

  ‘My lord? Shall I give the alarm?’ The auxiliary on picket duty had stopped, his voice more than ever uncertain. Sabinus saw the leading horseman was just a few paces behind Vindex, his horse in a clumsy canter. The fugitive swerved away from the track and it was a moment before the rider dragged his horse round to follow.

  Molacus looked at Sabinus. ‘Tell your man to stay at his post.’

  Vindex had turned, pulling his cloak off and waving it with his left arm in the hope of frightening the horse. He had a long cavalry sword in his right hand and they could hear him taunting his attacker. The animal flinched, pulling away, and the rider fought the beast, forcing him on at a walk. It gave time for the other two to close.

  ‘Give the alarm!’ Sabinus shouted, amazed that the words came out and were so loud.

  ‘Bastard!’ Molacus spat the word and slashed wildly at him. Sabinus felt the wind of the blade, stepped back and his boots slipped under him and he fell on his bottom.

  Ferox went half a pace forward, his helmet held firmly in both hands, and slammed the edge of the neck guard into the decurion’s throat, driving into the little gap between his cheek pieces and scarf. The man gasped, head snapping back, eyes wide, and Ferox spun to the left, helmet in one hand and struck at Molacus, a glancing blow on the side of the face as he dodged. The Briton went back, raising his sword high, but Ferox was quicker and swung the helmet again, breaking Molacus’ nose so that blood jetted down his face. The man staggered and Ferox struck again, using all his strength and worrying less about aim. There was a dull ringing sound as his iron helm hit the front of the decurion’s helmet, twisting it to cut the forehead. Molacus went back again, and the next blow produced a crack as a hinge snapped and a cheek piece of Ferox’s helmet flew off. The decurion sank to his knees.

  Sabinus realised that his gladius lay beside him and he snatched it up as he stood. The other Briton was clutching at his neck, swaying as he gasped for breath. Ferox had pushed Molacus down and was sitting on him, left hand clamped around the man’s sword arm and the other using his battered helmet to pound his face again and again. The auxiliary was coming, but as his fear turned to anger Sabinus went over to the gasping Briton and thrust his sword into the man’s belly. He felt the resistance of the iron rings, pressed harder, his rage growing, and felt the metal snap and the point slide in. The decurion seemed to stare straight at him, eyes desperate and imploring, so Sabinus pushed harder, using both hands to force the sword deeper, until he punched through the rear of the man’s armour and the tip erupted from
the Briton’s back.

  ‘Sir?’ The auxiliary had reached them. He was a youngster, his confusion obvious. Sabinus let go of his gladius and let the man fall. Down the slope one of the riders was stretched on the ground, unmoving, but Vindex was also down, rolling and dodging the two horsemen as they struggled to reach him with their swords.

  ‘Give me your spear, boy.’ Ferox was up, his face, arms and chest all spattered with blood. He snatched the shaft from the auxiliary and ran towards Vindex and the others. ‘Mongrels!’ he screamed at them.

  Sabinus’ hands were smeared red. He glanced at Molacus and wished that he had not, because there was just bloody pulp where the man’s face should have been. Neither he nor the other decurion were moving. Sabinus struggled to accept that for the first time he had killed a man. It had all been so sudden with no time to think.

  ‘What’s happening, sir?’ the soldier asked.

  Ferox raised the spear as he ran to help his friend. It was a sturdy hasta, too heavy to throw all that far, so he pounded down the slope to close the distance. Vindex had lost his sword and cloak as he scrambled to avoid their attacks, but at least he was still moving and at least neither of the men had spears. From horseback it was hard to reach a man on the ground with only a sword – hard, but not impossible.

  ‘Come on, you mongrels!’ he screamed again, trying to distract them. ‘Your king was a pimp and a coward!’

  They heard him. As one man reined in, his mount reared and for a moment Ferox thought that the rider might be thrown, until he recovered. It was Ivonercus and, like all Brigantes, he was a fine horseman. You had to give them that, and that they were easy men to like and admire.

  ‘Bastards!’ Ferox bellowed, not checking, but pulling the spear back a little more to give the throw as much force as he could. Ivonercus hesitated for an instant, and Ferox could sense his urge to charge and finish it once and for all.

  ‘Come on!’ It was Sabinus, leading the lone auxiliary, and perhaps that made up his mind, for Ivonercus turned and fled, calling to his companion to follow. Ferox pelted towards them, desperate to close the distance before he made his one throw. They were still forty paces away, and slowed as the horses turned. He gained just a little, left arm out straight to help, aiming at Ivonercus who was closest as well as the one who really mattered.