The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Then just as he threw, his hobnailed boots slipped on ice and his feet flew from under him. The hasta went high, almost straight up, as Ferox hit the ground hard.

  Vindex cackled, trying to sit up, until the laughter grew too strong and he lay back down. Sabinus was waving Ferox’s sword high as he reached them.

  ‘Are you hurt, sir?’ he asked, his face a mix of concern and obvious excitement.

  Ferox sighed. ‘Only my pride – and I’ve never had much of that.’

  ‘Shall I get them to muster a patrol to go after them?’

  Ferox pushed himself up, brushing off some of the snow as he stood. The two Brigantians were in plain sight, although he doubted that there was any chance of catching them by the time pursuit was organised. The cheeky devils had even stopped to catch the two riderless horses. ‘No harm in trying,’ he said.

  Sabinus sent the auxiliary running back to the fort with the message, as Vindex came over to join them. ‘Reckon we’ll see ’em again?’ Ferox’s expression made an answer unnecessary. ‘Aye, that oath.’

  ‘Oath?’ Sabinus asked.

  ‘To kill us both or give their lives in the attempt,’ Vindex explained. He bared his big teeth. ‘The centurion has a knack of making friends wherever he goes.’

  ‘This has happened before?’ Sabinus was struggling to keep pace.

  ‘Only a couple of times. Most just mutter among themselves, and probably not more than fifty have taken the oath.’

  ‘Fifty?’

  ‘Give or take,’ Vindex conceded. ‘And three less now.’ Taking pity on the shocked officer, he decided to explain. ‘They’re Brigantes and we killed their high king. Made his men a bit angry, you might say.’

  ‘He was a rebel and we were acting under orders,’ Ferox spoke for the first time.

  ‘Oh aye,’ Vindex allowed. ‘Still their king though.’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘Well, there is that.’

  Ferox gestured towards his sword and Sabinus was surprised at feeling a moment of reluctance before handing it over.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ Ferox said and set off up the slope to the fort. There were dozens of men on the ramparts, watching them, so the alarm had been given, but he doubted that a patrol would be ready before the hour was out. He walked quickly, leaving the others behind.

  ‘’Course,’ Vindex began to explain, ‘many of the other lads may want to kill the centurion on account of his sunny disposition. As I say, he has a way with people.’

  II

  Rome

  The same day

  THE PRAETOR WAS in a hurry, as usual, but Rome was Rome, and the crowds saw too many magistrates to be that impressed by the pomp surrounding one. His lictors did their best, threatening when their mere approach was not enough to make people clear a path, and steadily they made progress, acquiring the inevitable tail of boys and idlers hoping to watch a few arguments or perhaps even a fight. The Flavian amphitheatre towered over them, quiet today – or at least as quiet as anywhere could be when it was surrounded with hawkers and stall holders. Rome was never quiet during the daylight hours and not much better at night, although after yesterday’s Lupercalia by rights everyone ought to have been subdued, if they were awake at all.

  They pushed their way through, and as they began to climb the slope of the Caelian hill the crowd changed, thinning a little, and more and more of them obviously the slaves and freedmen of the wealthy going about their duties. Litters stopped to make way for them, as was fitting for the symbols of a magistrate, their occupants hailing the praetor with greetings and invitations.

  ‘Will you dine with me, Aelius?’, ‘May I call on you, praetor?’, ‘Best wishes to you, my lord, and to your good lady.’

  Some of the passengers were women, and some of what they said was barely audible, since no fine lady should shout in the streets. Twice words were unnecessary, and the obvious longing of one mature woman and the giggles of a younger one made clear that there was more than respect for rank and family. Each of the women was a senator’s wife, and all the lictors knew their master’s reputation there. The praetor could be very charming when he wanted, was a good height, athletic and with dark, soulful eyes. His neat beard was not fashionable for a man of rank, and had not been for centuries, but that was a sign of his immense self-confidence, pronounced even for a senator. He had celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday last month, was approaching his prime, and for a bored or neglected wife he can only have seemed a dashing figure. They dreamed of love, and he learned about their husbands, filing the information away in case it one day was useful. None of the lictors knew whether these stories were true, but they had seen his prodigious memory and the interest he took in individuals. On the first morning the praetor addressed each one by his name, whereas some magistrates never got very far past ‘Hey, you!’ in their twelve months of office.

  The castra peregrina lay in the Second Region of the city, joining onto the old walls. Few magistrates came this way, let alone visited the ‘camp of the foreigners’, which was smaller and less impressive than the barracks of the praetorians, or the new ones that Trajan was having built for his cavalry bodyguard, the singulares Augusti. This camp was more of a mansio on a grand scale than anything else. It was the base of the frumentarii, centurions and other ranks from the legions on attachment from their units with the staffs of provincial governors. They helped supervise the provision of grain for men and animals, as well as other foods and material to the army, especially when these could not be found in adequate quality and quantity from local sources. These days much of their time was spent carrying messages and reports from governors back to the emperor and then from the emperor to the governors. There were usually a couple of hundred at the camp, drawn from the thirty legions dotted around the world, hence the talk of ‘foreigners’. These were a mix of men lately arrived, those waiting to travel back to a province and sufficient others to ensure that there was never any shortage of messengers at a time of emergency.

  Today there were two men forming the picket on guard outside the gate, just as in any fort, even though the likelihood of rioters in such an affluent part of the city was unlikely, and the approach of foreign enemies absurd. Yet the men stood there, replaced every two hours, their equipment burnished until it almost glowed, with tunics bleached a brilliant white, and the drab cloaks of the frontiers, albeit new and perfect, because no one was about to let any of the pansy, play-acting soldiers in Rome find the slightest fault.

  ‘Halt!’ One of the guards was quite short and the shoulder bands of his gleaming segmented armour made him look almost square. ‘Who goes there?’ The man’s rectangular scutum was red, and emblazoned with the lightning bolts and wings of Jupiter painted in gold. A lot of the legions used similar insignia, but the praetor knew that this was the badge of Legio X Fretensis, based in Judaea.

  ‘The noble Aelius Hadrianus, praetor, with an appointment to see the princeps peregrinorum,’ the lictor responded, careful to say exactly what he had been told. His master made it clear that precision was important.

  The two legionaries stamped to attention, sparks flying on the paving stones as their hobnailed boots slammed down.

  ‘You are expected, my lord,’ the second soldier said, eyes curious even if his voice was not. This man also had a red shield, with a white Capricorn and LEG II AUG beneath the boss. That meant that the man was detached from the garrison of Britannia. ‘If you would like to go through the gate, there is a man waiting to take the noble praetor to the princeps.’

  Once the lictors and the litter had passed, the two soldiers exchanged wondering glances, before resuming the impassive stare of a sentry. A couple of grubby infants who had trailed the magistrate for the last half hour waited for a while, until they realised that sticking their tongues out at the legionaries provoked no response and decided to shuffle away.

  By this time, the commander of the garrison was a little less worried. His guest had accepted a cup of wine and given s
ufficient sign of enjoyment to justify the purchase of so expensive a vintage. He had also eyed the slave who had brought it as the boy had left, which suggested that some of the rumours about the man were true.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, my dear Turbo,’ the praetor said abruptly. ‘By the way, I trust that your brother is well? He was very kind to a young and naïve tribune when I served with II Adiutrix.’

  Turbo had not known of the connection, for his brother had not mentioned it – well, who bothered to discuss the antics of the aristocrats doing their five-minute stint as broad stripe tribune with a legion. Interesting that the praetor had not mentioned this in his letter.

  ‘He is well, my lord, hoping to be made primus pilus before too many more years.’

  ‘Does not surprise me. He will make it too. The best soldier I ever saw.’

  Turbo wondered whether the prefect always spoke in such clipped sentences or whether the man was posing as a bluff soldier. He could detect no hint of an offer to assist his brother’s ambitions – or indeed his own – in return for some favour.

  ‘My letter must have worried you!’ Hadrian said abruptly, and grinned, his informality as shocking as his words. He raised a hand at Turbo’s instinctive denial. ‘Please, do not trouble yourself.’ The grin was back again. ‘It certainly would have worried me if I was in your place. Some senator – a praetor of all things – nosing about an army base and wanting to talk to the numerus. What’s the bugger up to, you must have thought? Can’t be up to any good, and more than likely doing something that might compromise your sacred oath to the emperor. Even these days that looks suspicious, under as beneficent and wise a princeps as the Lord Trajan.’

  That was indeed what Turbo had thought, and under ordinary circumstances he might have made excuses, pleaded other duties or just refused and asked the praetor to submit a formal request via the consuls if he needed information for a trial. The problem was that the circumstances were not normal. Hadrian was not simply a praetor, but the great-nephew of the emperor. If Turbo was not sure how far Trajan’s favour extended, that did not matter. At the very least it placed this young man close to the highest levels of the Senate, which meant that he could scarcely do less than meet him, after such a courteous request. At the same time, he had filed the letter and formally recorded the appointment.

  Hadrian reached over and patted him on the arm. ‘My dear fellow, I really am sorry to trouble you, but my intentions are in no way improper. That is why I have come so publicly – to show that neither of us have anything to hide.’ The praetor’s eyes were fixed on him, as if reading his innermost thoughts. ‘I believe that you can help me, and that in turn will permit me to serve the res publica more effectively in my small way. Please forgive me for taking some of your valuable time.’

  ‘An honour, my lord.’ Turbo glanced down at the tablets on his desk, less because he needed to remind himself of what they said than to break away from the intensity of Hadrian’s gaze. ‘Your letter explained that you are returning to the eagles.’

  ‘That’s right. Instead of the usual year as magistrate, I am to hand over my responsibilities next month and go out as legatus to Legio I Minervia. No one ever likes a changeover of command and getting used to a new commander’s little ways – I lived through that twice while I was tribune. You must have experienced it even more often?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. A fair few times.’ Turbo was a centurion, with eighteen years of service in a succession of legions before his appointment as princeps peregrinorum. ‘Soldiers are creatures of habit. Discipline may be petty, but at least you know where you are.’ Turbo wondered whether Hadrian’s clipped manner of speaking was infectious. Apart from his connections, this was clearly a man to watch. ‘A new man has a tendency to change things, usually little things, but they are the ones that can get under the skin.’

  ‘So I would like to learn as much about my legion as I can before I arrive, in the hope of making the transition as painless as possible. That way, the only changes I shall have to introduce will be those essential to honing the Minervia’s efficiency.’

  Poor bastards, they don’t know what’s going to hit them, Turbo thought in momentary sympathy. ‘Of course, my lord, but why come to me? There must be more information kept in the Palatium. We only deal with food and other supplies. While we carry messages to and from provincial legati, no copies are kept here.’

  ‘It is because of that that I am here. The latest strength return they have is almost a year old. A new one is due anytime now, but they do not have it yet.’ The grin was back. ‘But if I’m any judge the men must have eaten since then, and your frumentarii are bound to have been involved in supplying any substantial detachment. In the last return there were vexillations from the legion scattered all over the place and I should like to know where they all are now.’

  ‘Well, as you know, sir, the depot is at Bonna in Germania Superior, and around one thousand men are there or nearby. Then there are two cohorts at Viminiacum, and the equivalent of three strong ones at Dobreta working on the bridge.’ The grin broadened at this point, although Turbo could not guess why. ‘Both in Moesia – Superior that is. Can’t quite get used to one province being split into two, begging your pardon. Then a couple of smaller vexillations.’ He handed a tablet across to the praetor.

  ‘Thank you.’ Hadrian scanned the list. ‘Three hundred with two centurions at the praesidium of Piroboridava?’ He frowned, but before Turbo could explain, went on. ‘That’s Dacia isn’t it? Well, on the fringes at least, and across the Ister. I’m guessing they are not the only ones in garrison?’

  A few hours ago Turbo had forgotten the name if he had ever heard it, but the warning had at least served that purpose and given time for information to be gathered. ‘They’re the biggest contingent, but there is also a parcel of auxiliaries. No whole units, although a mixed contingent is on its way. Yes, here we are, Brittones sub cura Titi Flavii Ferocis, no more specific than that, but all I know for sure is that there will be a lot more horses in the garrison soon, so that they will need barley and straw as well as wheat. It may mean that some of the troops already there will be withdrawn.’

  ‘Two hundred and twenty at Sarmizegethusa,’ Hadrian read, ‘and one hundred and sixty at Buridava.’

  ‘Also beyond the Ister, my lord. The ones at Sarmizegethusa are part of the observation force, keeping an eye on the king. If you remember the thinking was that detachments from several units could do the job, without leaving men of just one legion so exposed.’

  ‘And do we expect trouble from Decebalus?’

  ‘Not my field,’ Turbo said. ‘The frumentarii carry reports of that nature, but do not read them – not if they want to keep their jobs. However, judging from the shipments we oversee, we aren’t expecting anything big this year.’ Hercules’ balls, he thought, realising that he may have been indiscreet. ‘Still early days though,’ he added, hoping to muddy the matter.

  Hadrian gave a pleasant smile, not in the least triumphant. Turbo realised that he was drumming his fingers on the table and stopped.

  ‘Are all the detachments beyond the Danube composed of veterani?’

  ‘My lord?’ Turbo’s fingers twitched again, but he just managed to restrain himself from tapping the wood. He considered for a moment. ‘No idea, if I am honest. We do not get that sort of information. Could be, I suppose – well, some anyway. They’re excused fatigues of course, but still liable for garrison duty.’

  ‘Not to worry, it was just a thought. How many men from Minervia do you have here at the moment?’ Hadrian asked.

  ‘Just three. A couple set off for the Rhine a few days ago and a few may arrive by the end of the month. Journeys take longer at this time of year.’ Turbo wondered whether he saw brief annoyance at his banal explanation.

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘One is waiting outside, in case you wanted to have a word. Name is Celer. He’s served thirteen stipendia, and this is his second as a frument
arius. Shall I call for him?’

  Hadrian nodded, so Turbo rang the little bell standing on his desk. Almost immediately a slim soldier marched into the room, wearing tunic, weapons’ belt and boots and slammed to attention.

  ‘At ease, Celer,’ Turbo told the soldier. ‘This noble gentleman is soon to take command of the legion and wishes to talk to you.’

  ‘Sir!’ Celer slackened his shoulders ever so slightly, while continuing to stare over the heads of the seated men, avoiding making eye contact.

  ‘My apologies,’ Hadrian said affably. ‘I regret interrupting your duties or even worse taking you away from well-earned rest. I know you frumentarii have to travel hard and fast – and then be willing at a moment’s notice to set out again.’

  ‘Sir.’ An experienced soldier sheltered behind that short word as he did his shield.

  ‘And you do not need to speak in praise of I Minervia. I know their reputation from my time as tribune and from when I served in Lord Trajan’s campaigns in Dacia. … I also appreciate that your duties take you away from your comrades and the legion, but am sure that you have friends with whom you keep in touch? Or relatives?’

  Celer gave what might have been a shrug. ‘A brother, sir.’

  ‘Older?’

  If he was surprised then Celer concealed it. Turbo was wary enough of his visitor to do the same, but could still not work out what was behind this interest.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Celer said. ‘Eleven years older. He’s one of the originals.’

  ‘The first recruits when Domitian formed the legion?’

  Turbo suspected that his mouth twitched at mention of the last of the Flavians, an emperor now formally damned by the Senate, his statues cast down and name erased from monuments.