The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Perhaps I could think of someone,’ Hadrian said softly. If Laberius wanted to play little games then why not make it hard for him.

  ‘Day after day it went on,’ the senator continued, half shouting. ‘Sun and rain, there the poor fellow was and each time the divine Augustus strode past. Took to coming earlier and earlier and finally to camping out to be closest to the edge of the road.’

  ‘Perhaps you could,’ Laberius said. ‘And perhaps even better you would consider Licinianus – I mean young Crassus Frugi, or Piso as he likes to be known.’

  Hadrian had a good memory for names, even long names like Caius Calpurnius Piso Crassus Frugi Licinianus. It was a point of pride never to forget, especially if he had met someone, but even so it was a moment before he could picture the face. It was not a pretty face, speckled with moles, some of them large, the expression dull and sullen. ‘An admirable young man, I believe,’ he said, lying fluently. ‘I did not know that he was eager for service. He must already be twenty-two.’

  They had to pause because Trajan had slowed and was showing pleasure at the story, listening as he gave instructions to the young slave to dole out more bounties to the crowd. Seeing his interest, the old senator spoke even louder. ‘So after a few more days, Caesar Augustus decides to have a game with the rogue. Next morning, instead of ignoring him, he strides right up to the little fellow and declaims a verse of his own.’

  Hadrian smiled. It was a good story.

  ‘Maybe the man ought to have been an actor rather than a peddler of verses, for he reacts well, praising the poem to the skies. Then out with his purse, pulls the string open and pours out the contents into Caesar’s hand. Only a couple of asses there. Well, that’s why he was begging. “I wish that I had more with which to recognise your art,” he says, “but here, you must take my last coins as well as my praise and blessing!”

  ‘Augustus liked a joke and knew when he was beaten. Clapped the fellow on the shoulder and sent a boy to give him a full purse!’

  Trajan laughed. A few began laughing at the same instant and the remainder took their cue from the master of the world. Laberius contented himself with a wry smile, but he was an especially old and trusted friend.

  ‘I do hope that there are no poets here today,’ the emperor declared, producing more laughter.

  ‘I know a good one about Priapus!’ someone shouted from the crowd.

  ‘Quick, give him some money to keep it to himself,’ Trajan called to the boy, the loudest instruction he had given, and there were cheers.

  After a few more minutes, they were almost at the house of their host, the doors of the atrium standing open and the welcoming party visible.

  ‘It would be a wise gesture,’ Laberius said, and the merest flick of his eyes towards the emperor’s straight back was sufficient to show that he was not speaking solely for himself.

  ‘And the father’s injudicious actions?’ Hadrian asked. The elder Crassus had plotted to overthrow Nerva, the old man made an emperor by the Senate after the murder of the unlamented Domitian seven years ago, who had in turn adopted Trajan and raised him to the purple. He was now in exile, albeit a comfortable one at Tarentum rather than on some bare rock out at sea.

  ‘Almost forgotten and not the fault of his son. Let the youngster have a chance to prove himself and redeem the family.’

  ‘I see.’ Hadrian thought for a moment. The father was a fool, his plot a badly run farce easily discovered and defeated. The son certainly looked a halfwit, but with the legion dispersed in so many detachments, it should be easy enough to keep him at a distance. Stupidity was tiresome to observe in detail. ‘I daresay I could find work for him somewhere.’

  ‘Not too far away,’ Laberius said as if reading his thoughts. ‘As you might say, keep eyes and ears on him.’ There was clearly more, but by this time they had arrived and there was no more chance to talk for some hours.

  The dinner was pleasant enough. Their host, a noted epicure, knew the emperor well and had judged his tastes nicely. The food was fine, but not so fine that it was too exotic or ostentatiously expensive. The wine was decent, some of it scented as Trajan liked, and all of it plentiful. All of the guests were men, for the host’s wife had died years before and he had never taken another. Conversation flowed easily, with much merriment and jokes at the host’s and guests’ expense. A few of those present knew Trajan well enough to mock his habit of eating too fast or his abrupt, martial way of speaking and other idiosyncrasies that the emperor himself liked to laugh at. All was perfectly balanced, as was the talk, most of it innocuous, yet to the discerning observer helping to confirm the pecking order of those nearest the princeps. Little was serious, even less important, and Hadrian as the youngest man there said less than the others as was proper, refrained from correcting a number of ill-considered statements, and listened whenever there was something that truly mattered.

  Another war with Dacia seemed likely, perhaps even inevitable, for there were more and more reports that King Decebalus was violating the treaty. Sosius’ most recent letters had told Hadrian even more than the emperor seemed to know, speaking of envoys of the king ranging widely to seek allies. That letter had come weeks ago, and another was surely due. Still, experience taught that it was best to trust Sosius and let the man go about his dark business without close supervision.

  ‘We will prepare this summer,’ Trajan said after a question from their host about the rumours. ‘Get most of the men and stores in place by the end of the year. Then next spring I will march into the mountains again and smash Decebalus if he won’t see sense. Ought to know by now that he is no longer dealing with Domitian.’

  The diners voiced agreement more or less loudly. Most of them had served with the emperor in the previous war.

  Hadrian, relieved to hear that there would be a campaign before his spell as commander of the legion was up, was even more pleased when Trajan followed up by addressing him.

  ‘My cousin will precede us all,’ he declared, voice slightly louder than necessary and words just a little slurred. Trajan rarely spoke of Hadrian as a relation, so that too was welcome. ‘I shall expect you to take a good look at the situation and report to me. Put that nosiness of yours to good use for a change, eh?’ Trajan tapped his own nose as the company laughed, and Hadrian tried to seem abashed but good humoured.

  Trajan suddenly jabbed a finger towards him. ‘Find out what that Dacian bugger is up to! That’s what I want you to do!’ He turned to his host. ‘He’s a clever bastard, you know.’

  Hadrian was not sure whether the emperor was referring to him or Decebalus. After that the talk drifted away to other matters, most of them trivial. There was less and less need to pay close attention as the evening wore on. A Trajan full of wine loved to tell long stories about past campaigns.

  Nature called, and Hadrian was shown by a slave girl the way to the lavatory. Noticing that Laberius had risen and was following, but pretending not to have seen the other man, Hadrian slapped the girl on the rump. She gave a little squeal, but had the subdued expression of so many slaves and even this show bored him.

  There were three wooden seats, the sound of water trickling constantly from below and a strong scent from incense burning around the hanging lamp to cover almost all the smell. Laberius came in, lifting his tunic to sit alongside and soon started to talk. Hadrian wondered how often matters of state were discussed by two men defecating, but paid close attention.

  *

  The next morning Laberius went to call upon the emperor and was given a private audience, rather than being received with others obeying the same courtesy.

  ‘You spoke to him?’ Trajan’s voice was gruff, but then it often was. There was no sign of the after-effects of last night’s wine, even though any man must have felt them.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And explained.’

  ‘As much as he need know.’

  ‘Good.’ Trajan had a habit of rubbing his chin. His hair was dark and thick, a
nd Laberius knew that he often was shaved more than once a day. ‘Let’s hope the little shit can do his job.’

  ‘You really do not like him, do you, my lord?’

  Trajan shrugged. ‘Don’t have to like him, he’s family.’

  ‘But he is capable,’ Laberius said, ‘and very bright indeed.’

  ‘Exactly. How can you trust a man as clever as that?’

  ‘Spoken like a Roman, my lord, if you will forgive me for saying so!’

  The emperor’s laugh was rich and deep. He liked that. ‘Well, thank you, but I had better get back to work being polite.’ He clapped Laberius on the shoulder. ‘You can go back to sleep again, if you like!’

  ‘Good advice, my lord, but I have to be at the Senate in an hour.’

  ‘Best place to sleep, if you ask me!’

  Laberius was almost at the door, the chamberlain opening it for him, when the emperor called to him.

  ‘Well done,’ he boomed, before lowering his voice. ‘Old friend, I am so glad that I can trust you.’

  The former consul left, wondering how he should take that.

  VI

  Piroboridava

  The first day of the festival of the Quinquatria

  LATINIUS MACER LEFT three days after his dinner with Ferox, for the storm the prefect had feared blew up suddenly from the west and kept him waiting longer than he had hoped. To his considerable satisfaction, no one killed Flavius Ferox. At the same time the snow turned to sleet and then to rain, all driven in by ferocious winds, and cleared altogether by the next dawn, leaving the ground with less snow than there had been for months. Ferox suspected that the men would be riding or marching through mud by the time they were lower down the valley. A lot of off-duty men gathered to see Macer and his escort set out, whether from fondness for the old man, envy for those leaving with him or a mixture of both.

  Two days later the Brigantes arrived. Ferox had left one hundred horsemen and one hundred and sixty infantrymen to wait their turn for the ferry over the Danube at Dobreta. Twenty-seven, about half of them cavalry, failed to arrive.

  ‘They just vanished, sir.’ Ulpius Cunicius told Ferox, struggling to meet his gaze. It was a sorry tale, if no great surprise. Once over the river they were almost out of the empire, with few garrisons, and a warm welcome waiting from the Dacians or the chance to rove free among the other tribes if they chose. One entire picket of four horsemen had ridden off during the first night.

  ‘Did you chase them?’

  ‘We tried,’ Cunicius said weakly. Ferox could guess that no one had been that keen. After all, what were they to do if they had caught the men? ‘But I called it off quickly. There was no hope of catching them and I wanted to press on and join you.’

  ‘Without losing too many more,’ Ferox added to himself. Ulpius Cunicius was a decent man, the son of a chieftain who had stayed loyal to the right side during the rebellion, although had not been directly involved in the fighting. The reward was citizenship for the family, hence taking Ulpius, the family name of the emperor, and then a little later appointment as centurion to the irregular unit. He was the only centurion with the party, and now there was only one other decurion apart from Vindex. Others would appear if ever the rest of the force arrived. Cunicius was twenty-five, long limbed and narrow faced like most of his kin, but was still feeling his way into his new role. Ferox could not blame him, since he did not really know what was going on and how to turn the disparate mob into a useful unit before someone killed him or half of the rest went over the wall. In truth Cunicius had done well to lose so few on the way to Piroboridava. Now that they were here, it became a little harder to desert than it had been on the march, while opening up a whole new set of problems.

  The first fight broke out on the evening of the day after the Brigantes had arrived, and Ferox was surprised that it had taken so long. He did not see it, nor did anyone else of high rank, and what had happened only came out after there were more arguments over the next few days, culminating in one that left a veteran of I Minervia with a bad knife wound to the stomach and a Brigantian hit so hard on the head that he remained unconscious and would not wake. Both men were carried to the hospital, along with half a dozen more with lesser injuries.

  ‘They’re not happy,’ Sabinus conceded.

  Ferox had summoned his senior officers to a meeting in his office in the principia, the headquarters of the fort. Thinking about it, he supposed it was now his principia, just as they were his officers. Neither thought felt natural and he wondered whether they ever would. He had been in the army for the best part of twenty years, more than half his whole life, but the only garrison he had ever commanded was the tiny outpost at Syracuse not far from Vindolanda in northern Britannia. There his duties had been modest, the administrative work light or trivial enough to be left to a junior. Here there were some six hundred soldiers to oversee, feed, and keep healthy, as well as sick men in the hospital, army slaves like the galearii, private slaves and no doubt women and children belonging to the rest, although there seemed far fewer of these than he would have expected. The Brigantes had not been permitted to bring families or slaves, apart from one servant for each of the officers.

  ‘Not happy?’ Ferox asked. He understood the mood of the men already in garrison, but needed to get a better sense of their officers. It would have been nice to think that only the Brigantes were discontented, but even a few hours at Piroboridava was enough to get a sense of the wider frustration of its garrison.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sabinus glanced nervously at Sertorius Festus, the only other centurion from I Minervia, eager for his support.

  ‘They’re fed up,’ Festus said. He struck Ferox as capable enough in his way, without imagination or spark. It was hard to know why either man was posted to this vexillation and whether it was chance, their turn on the roster, or more deliberate than that. Outposts often received the men no one wanted anywhere else. Both centurions were understandably and very reasonably loyal to their men, putting them on the defensive and making it hard to admit that their legionaries were anything less than bursting to do their duty.

  ‘Rumour was that we were all being relieved.’ That was Julius Dionysius, the remaining centurion left in the garrison. He was a small man, his movements precise and very controlled. His dark complexion and delicate features marked him as an easterner, and as an auxiliary centurion he was junior to the other two, although ranking above poor Cunicius. He had a young, open face, even though he must be nearly Ferox’s age, and hard, intelligent eyes. When no one else said anything, he continued. ‘Everyone expected to be relieved as soon as you and your men reached us. Then they found out that only a handful are to leave and the rest are to stay. Indefinitely for all they know.’

  ‘That is not our fault,’ Cunicius said defensively. Ferox was glad he had the confidence to speak up.

  ‘Of course not.’ Dionysius’s smile was disarming. ‘But you are here and they have no one else to blame.’

  ‘And your men need to show more respect,’ Sabinus declared. ‘These are not simply legionaries, but veterans.’

  ‘We are Brigantes,’ Cunicius replied, defiant in his pride. ‘We step aside for no man.’

  Festus sneered. ‘You are barbarians.’ He was not a tall man, but very broad in the shoulders with long, powerful arms. Ferox had not been at the fort long before he heard legionaries calling the centurion ‘the ape’; he was not sure whether or not Festus knew of his nickname. Probably not, as the man lacked subtlety. Still, this was getting them nowhere.

  Ferox drummed his fingers on the wooden table. The silence was immediate. None of them, not even Cunicius, knew him at all well and all – with the possible exception of Dionysius – were nervous of their new commander.

  ‘Soldiers fight,’ Ferox said, speaking softly. ‘I suppose that is why they pay us!’ Even Festus laughed and whether they were genuinely amused or felt obliged did not matter so much. ‘When there are no enemies they will fight each other. If there were o
nly your legionaries here, then I daresay in time men who had served in one cohort would band together against those who had spent their time in another, or the Spaniards against the Italians or even the Blues against the Greens. You know how devoted the fans of each faction can be. So they will fight if they are bored and have time on their hands. That is the key.’ He scanned the faces. Cunicius doing his best to seem eager, but still unused to the army and its ways and smarting at the contempt shown by Festus. The ‘ape’ had his chin thrust forward belligerently waiting to be told what to do. Sabinus seemed to understand, while Dionysius had clearly heard it all before.

  ‘So we will not give them any time. The weather is breaking and spring on its way. From now on we work, day in and day out. Sabinus.’ Ferox nodded at the man.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I want that bath house finished and running before the end of the month. You are in charge.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I also want the ditches cleared, roofs repaired where they need it, and then we go through all the stores and equipment here and make sure they are in perfect condition. That’s your job, Festus.’

  The ape nodded.

  ‘Both of you will take work parties from all the units here. You know how it’s done. Put them into teams and make it a competition over who can do a job best and fastest. Prizes will be extra wine in their ration, and extra passes to bathe or to visit the canabae. I know it is small, but there are a couple of bars.’ He did not need to add, that in the bars there were bound to be at least a few girls available for hire.

  Festus coughed. ‘Our men are veterani, sir. They are not obliged to work or perform fatigues.’

  ‘The craftsmen won’t mind, and all of them will be happy to help with the bath house. The rest will do the lighter jobs, but we will mix up the teams. Give each party some auxiliaries, galearii when they can be spared from their own duties, and a score of Brigantes to help. Then it’s about making their Britons do a better job than the ones with the other teams. We will make sure there are men with decent Latin in every group. See to that, Cunicius.’