The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘We are not Romans.’

  ‘Yet you are here.’ Ferox leaned over and found another pebble. ‘And you are oath sworn to serve the Lord Trajan.’

  ‘If you kill him then I must kill you.’ Vepoc did not mean the emperor. ‘The centurion was a fool.’ He had his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He did not move, and was not tense or giving any other sign that he was about to spring.

  Ferox tossed the stone up and caught it. ‘There are many fools in the world, and plenty of them are chieftains and lords.’

  ‘Andoco is my brother. Oath or not, I must avenge him, and so must our cousins.’

  ‘I know. The Silures understand the calls of blood.’ There was no harm in speaking as one of his own folk, and not as the citizen and centurion.

  Vepoc sniffed in contempt. ‘Silures know nothing of honour.’

  ‘Yet any folk who have wronged us know how much we are driven to vengeance.’ Ferox reached back and threw the stone as far out as he could. There was no sound, so either he had reached a patch of ice or the far bank. ‘The choice is yours.’ He spread his arms wide and turned to face the warrior. If Vepoc wanted to kill him he had a good chance of drawing his sword and striking before Ferox could answer.

  Vepoc did not move and was silent for a long while.

  ‘We will do it,’ he said at last. ‘Kin will slay kin on the orders of a chief so that justice will be done. Then there is nothing to avenge, since the man who gave the first insult has already gone to the Otherworld.’

  Ferox lowered his arms to his side. ‘You have a day. I can give you no more.’

  ‘The Silures are a cruel folk,’ Vepoc told him. ‘To make a man wait so long for the end.’

  ‘The Silures are cruel folk, as all men tell,’ Ferox said. ‘Shall we go?’ Without waiting for an answer, he began walking back up the slope. Vepoc was one of the king’s men as were his cousins. If they wished to avenge the king’s death then they still had a chance, and could kill them if they were able and vanish into the night. On foot it would be harder to escape pursuit, but it was possible. He wanted to show them trust, and at the same time readied himself to dodge and fight if the attack came.

  It did not, and Vepoc followed him for a few paces before speaking again. ‘One thing I must ask.’

  Ferox halted and listened. ‘So be it,’ he agreed after hearing the explanation.

  *

  The next morning Andoco’s head was impaled on a spike over the porta praetoria. The boy had been freed from his chains and handed over to Vepoc and the others as soon as they all returned to the fort. Ferox had let them have a room in an empty barrack block that was being cleared for the rest of the unit when it arrived. The older brother and his cousins prepared a meal, and over the next hours men came to offer gifts or pay their respects to the courage of the young man. They were not just others who had served the king, and as men went to the room, paid their respects, ate a morsel and left, others saw and joined. Even some of the legionaries went, although this was not their custom. Sometime later in the night, Andoco kneeled down outside, bowed his head, and let his brother slit his throat. That at least was the story, for no one apart from the cousins were there and none of them said a word. Rumour also said that the boy was brave. Afterwards they cut off his head and carried it to the main gateway, where the sentries had been warned and Ferox was waiting. Vepoc said nothing, and with his own hands rammed the head onto the spike, for this was where enemies and criminals were to be displayed. No words were spoken. He caressed the dead man’s hair just once, and then left.

  ‘I do not like any of this, sir,’ Sabinus said. ‘It is so irregular.’

  ‘So are my men,’ Cunicius replied, and Ferox was glad to hear the hardness in his voice.

  At sunset Ferox returned to the gate tower and waited for the Brigantes. Before they arrived he prised the head from its spike and wrapped it in a cloth. Then he stood, holding it in his hands.

  Vepoc had painted his face white, so that it shone in the torchlight. On the road below waited his cousins, all mounted and carrying spears and shields. Andoco’s corpse lay across the back of another horse led by one of them, while each of the others drew a mule, one bearing provisions, the gifts given to the dead man and his weapons, and the other with bundles of wood and tools.

  Once again no words were said, and the sentries had the sense to keep their distance and stay silent. There was something uncanny about the whole business, as if the entire garrison was holding its breath, unsure what was about to happen.

  Ferox offered Vepoc the head, and the Brigantian took it. The centurion bowed and the warrior left, taking care as he went down the ladders.

  ‘I do not like this,’ Sabinus whispered as the Brigantes rode out through the gateway into the night. ‘How will we report it?’

  Ferox did not answer, but leaned on the parapet as he watched them go.

  ‘The record will show that five men went on patrol,’ Julius Dionysius told him. ‘If pressed, it may be noted that one of the men was dead. The roster already shows the death of our lamented colleague, and the arrest and execution of his murderer as a warning.’

  ‘There’ll be questions,’ Sabinus went on. ‘There are bound to be.’

  ‘The responsibility is mine,’ Ferox said, still staring out, even though the horsemen had long since vanished into the darkness.

  ‘What if they don’t come back?’

  ‘Then we have a few more deserters,’ Dionysius said airily. ‘Or say they have been eaten by lions.’

  ‘They will come back,’ Ferox said, hoping that he was right. ‘The oath will hold them.’

  ‘The pledge to kill you?’ Sabinus was thinking back to the sudden, appalling burst of violence on the day Ferox arrived.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ferox said, ‘or another.’

  ‘Brigantes keep their word,’ Vindex said. Sabinus started, for he had forgotten that the tall head of scouts was standing in the shadows. ‘Not like Silures,’ he added in the language of the tribes.

  Ferox sighed. ‘Silures keep their word. It’s just that they hardly ever give it and promises don’t count.’

  Sabinus shook his head, for Ferox had spoken in Latin. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘I don’t think we are supposed to,’ Dionysius said.

  On the following morning a pyre was prepared for Festus on the far side of the track opposite the parade ground. He had not been popular, for he lacked charm and his moods had been a little too unpredictable for the soldiers to accept him as a character. Yet there was grudging respect, a feeling that his death was a ghastly mistake, and also the desire of the veterani of I Minervia to see one of their own sent off in proper style. The centurion had liked things done to the letter of the regulation, so that is what they did.

  In the afternoon they burned his corpse, and the preparations proved good because the heat was immense before the shelf collapsed and the centurion’s remains dropped into the flames. All, save the legionaries on guard duty or other essential tasks, were present, parading in their finest tunics, armour gleaming, leathers spotless, and those who had them wearing their dona and other decorations. Ferox was also in full uniform, the harness worn over his mail shirt heavy with medals, a torc at his neck and smaller ones around his wrists. Preparing all the gear was a task close to the heart of his freedman, Philo, who had done an exceptional job even by his standards. Up until now Ferox’s distinguished record was largely a matter of rumour and no more, and seeing all these awards for valour impressed even the most grizzled veterans, at least a little. Yet they were more satisfied to see that he was showing appropriate respect for the dead man and thus their legion.

  There was no wind, so the black smoke climbed straight into the blue heaven and the sun’s warmth made it uncomfortably hot even some distance from the blaze. The last of the snow had melted down in the valley, although the heights remained white and that was unlikely to change for another month or more.

  Ferox watched Fes
tus burn and wondered how the mood of the garrison would change. They were still shocked and unsure, but that would not last forever. No one had stolen Venus since the day of the killing. At least the weather seemed to have turned as spring came slowly to the highlands and that ought to help. He would have to keep driving them, and that made him wonder about how to replace Festus. Ferox had not cared all that much for the dead man, finding him boorish and lacking in imagination. Still, he had met plenty of officers who were worse, and in many respects Festus had done his job well. From now on, he and the others would have more to do.

  The sound of hoofs on the planking of the bridge made him turn. A rider was coming, an auxiliary trooper riding a foam-flecked horse. He recognised neither the trooper nor the mount, so this was a stranger and surely a messenger. He tried to push down the thought that any news or orders arriving during a funeral were unlikely to be good.

  ‘Dismiss the parade!’ he ordered Sabinus. ‘Let the fire burn out and we can collect the ashes in the morning.’ Festus was not to be buried in the small cemetery on this side of the road. Instead the ashes were to be carried to his widow and family in Narbonensis. Ferox had still not got over his surprise at hearing that the dead man was married, and felt guilty at not having bothered to find out more about his subordinates. Not only married, but the man had seven children. Festus had never spoken of them, but then Ferox was not one to speak of his own life outside the army except with his closest friends, and even then, only rarely. The news had made him regret the centurion’s death even more and it was a relief to discover that Festus’ estate was considerable and had gone entirely to his widow and offspring.

  ‘Did you ever meet her?’ Ferox asked later that night, as he once again leaned on the parapet above the main gate and stared up at the slim moon and the vast field of stars around it. He had taken to coming here whenever he wanted to think and could find no excuse to leave the fort. Sabinus was on duty that night, and inspecting the sentries.

  ‘No. There is a picture in his quarters. She looks…’ Sabinus struggled for the right words. ‘A little ferocious? I am sure that the fault is with the artist. Some women have an enigmatic beauty and Festus spoke very highly of her as wife and as a mother.’

  Ferox had not realised that the two men were as close, for they seemed so different, although spending a long winter at Piroboridava was likely to make a man eager for any company. Down below the pyre was no more than a red glow in the night.

  ‘I have written a letter to her and will forward it with my report with the request that it be sent on. The ashes will have to wait until we can find someone able to take them.’

  ‘Merchants will start coming through soon,’ Sabinus said. ‘A few of them at least. The track through the pass isn’t the easiest, so most take one of the other routes. The bridge may make a difference though – when it is finished that is.’

  Ferox nodded. ‘In the meantime we shall soon have some other visitors. Your new legatus is coming in a few weeks and sends word to expect him and a large party. Says he wants to inspect as many of the vexillations of I Minervia as he can, now that he is taking over.’

  ‘Omnes ad stercus,’ hissed a legionary standing guard a few paces away.

  ‘Quite,’ Ferox agreed. ‘And more immediately the despatch rider said he saw some Roxolani lower down the valley, so we had better double the guards whenever any horses or mules are put out to graze – and tell them to keep a close watch.’

  ‘I thought that we were at peace,’ Sabinus said. ‘There were a few about at the end of last summer and they weren’t any trouble.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be trouble,’ Ferox told him, and wondered why a little voice in his head was telling him not to be a fool. ‘But they are Roxolani. They like horses. If they can steal one they will – and see it as our fault for not taking more care of our property.’

  Two days passed and there was no sign of the four Brigantes. Ferox could tell that Sabinus was convinced that the men were gone for good, but did not want to say as much. After another day even Vindex showed concern and suggested riding out to take a wee look. Ferox waited. He might have been able to pick up their trail, but he doubted that anyone else had the skill and he did not wish to be seen to lose faith in Vepoc and his relatives. The rituals ought to have been completed some time ago, as both he and Vindex well knew.

  That evening the regular patrol up the valley returned with two men riding double.

  ‘I cannot make them out,’ Sabinus said, shielding his eyes with one hand. Ferox wondered at the man’s eyesight. He could not make out the faces, but the way the men sat made it obvious to him that they were Brigantes. Once they were closer he saw Vepoc and one of the cousins. When they reached the fort and reported, the Brigantian spoke of sudden ambush and hurried flight. One man died instantly, a second bled to death as they fled, and all their mounts were lost or killed. The last cousin had his thigh pierced by an arrow, and they had fled on foot, Vepoc carrying him half the time. Throwing off pursuit they had begun the long walk home, with little food and less hope if their attackers found them again. They had been walking for two and a half days when they ran into the patrol instead.

  ‘Roxolani?’ Sabinus asked, holding the arrow in his hands. The medicus had managed to extract it in the hospital and claimed to be optimistic about saving the leg.

  ‘No, Dacian.’ Ferox took it from him and fingered the fletches. Their shape was as distinctive as the bare wood of the shaft. ‘I think we may be in for some trouble.’

  * Close ranks.

  † Stand ready.

  ‡ March.

  § Halt.

  # About turn.

  In hiding

  THE ARCHERS WERE still young, the oldest barely twenty, and all three had spent the whole of the last war in a garrison in the far north west of the kingdom. There they had watched over a gold mine, and that was an important service to the king whose gold it was, but months passed, one year faded into the next and the Romans never came near. One of the men had shot an arrow at a bandit trying to steal a donkey. He missed. The rest of the time they watched and they trained for a war that never came. That was something the king believed could be learned from the Romans, who were so formidable in war because they spent the peace practising. Warriors called up to serve him from the clans were expected to train, learning to use their weapons, to stand together in line and prepare for the clash of battle, much of the time taught by Roman deserters. This was not the discipline of the pure, where all of life was devoted to excellence, but Brasus had to admit that it had great value. The biggest problem was that you could not train eager young men forever while denying them the chance to use what they had learned. So when the time came and enemies wandered into range, the archers had shot.

  Brasus had known about the Romans soon after they rode to within a few miles of the tower, for he kept sentries along the treeline, all told to remain out of sight and some perched in the high branches. His men were keeping a good watch and in most respects they were obedient and thorough. The watcher had seen the riders and noticed that they had brought a dead man and were treating the body with reverence. To make sure and to try to understand better these men he must one day fight, Brasus had gone the next day, although since Ivonercus struck him as too clumsy, he had watched from the undergrowth on the edge of the forest. The Briton had confirmed what seemed obvious; this was a funeral of a friend or relation. They were not close enough to recognise them, other than to say that there were more Brigantes, more of Ivonercus’ kin. With great care they built a platform of wood they had brought and branches they cut. The warrior who had watched them said that they had gathered a great deal, and it seemed that they had enough for they did not return to the edge of the forest during the day.

  There was no pyre, as Brasus had expected, and Ivonercus told him that his kin did not burn the dead, but raised them to the Heavens. That was interesting, and Brasus watched for longer than he had intended, given that these men presented no rea
l threat at the moment. He watched as they fashioned the platform, saw them lift the corpse onto the top.

  ‘The soul must be freed,’ the Briton told him. ‘Then it can find its path to the Otherworld.’

  ‘Do they leave him there?’

  Ivonercus was reluctant to talk about it, but when pressed at last gave an answer. ‘There are places in our homeland, places touched by the gods, where the boundaries between worlds are thin. No man visits such a place unless bringing the remains of kinsman or friend, so the treasures given to the dead rest undisturbed. Here it is different. They will let the sun rise and fall twice, and before the next dawn they will dig a hole and put him in it.’

  ‘So he will be buried?’

  The Briton looked at him as if he was a fool. ‘By then he will have gone on his journey. All that is left is the empty shell and that has no value. They may just scrape a hole and chuck it in.’

  Brasus sensed that there was more, much more to this, but did not press. The ways of the unenlightened were a curiosity and no more, so he fought down the urge to stay any longer or return and contented himself by sending men to pay particular attention in case these Britons wandered anywhere they should not or showed an inclination to defect. He sensed that Ivonercus guessed who they were, but when questioned the Briton had simply shrugged.

  ‘They might come over,’ he said. ‘Or they might not.’

  So warriors had watched them, and two of the archers had used the excuse of a hunting trip to join their friend who was on watch. The Britons had let their horses stray near to the forest, trusting the animals not to run. Their faith was justified, but when they wandered over to collect them, the warriors had not been able to resist using the bows given them by the king against human targets. Each was a beautiful creation, the two arms curving deeply. When unstrung the arms bent forward and then when strung they bulged back, so that when a nocked arrow was released it was driven with great force and speed. To hold one was to wish to loose a dart, and for eager young warriors the chance to shoot at a real enemy was too great a temptation to resist.