The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Philo breathed out. ‘I will pass them on, my lord.’

  Privatus returned, walking quickly to pass on the message.

  ‘Well, what’s this?’ Hadrian said, his tone sharp. ‘Where is Ferox?’

  ‘The centurion regrets that he is unable to join his guests,’ Philo began.

  ‘Hercules’ balls, he’d better have a damned good excuse,’ Hadrian cut in.

  ‘Yes, my lord, he feels that he has.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘My master begs to report that the fort is on fire.’

  *

  The granary was blazing furiously, and all was chaos, with alarm bells ringing and men shouting. Ferox felt his skin scorching with the heat and coughed as smoke blew towards him. That was at least a consolation, for it was blowing away from the other buildings and towards the intervallum, the wide road running around the camp inside the rampart. Hopefully, that would give them a little time.

  ‘Keep moving! Keep moving!’ he yelled at the men carrying all that they could from the granary beside the one on fire. There was barely a yard between the two buildings and it was amazing that the flames had not already spread.

  ‘What’s this lot?’ Vindex and another of the Carvetii staggered as they carried a big amphora.

  ‘Olive oil.’

  ‘Shit!’ They hurried away to add their burden to the piles of stores a hundred yards away.

  ‘Optio!’ Ferox shouted as he saw one of the men from I Minervia. ‘Where are those tools and ropes?’

  ‘Coming, sir!’

  ‘Get a move on!’ More men were arriving, summoned by the bells and the noise, and he was pleased to see a group of men with a long ladder because he had not thought to ask for one. ‘Up on the roof,’ he called, pointing at the third granary, which was separated from the first pair by a wider alley. ‘Use anything you can to prise off the shingles. As many as you can as quick as you can.’

  The soldier, who looked like one of the auxiliaries, nodded in understanding. Before he left, Ferox put his hand on the man’s shoulders. ‘Do what you can, but no silly heroics, eh?’ The response was a grin, and then the man started shouting at the others.

  At last the tools were arriving from the workshops, and he saw axe blades and saws gleaming red in the firelight. He needed them, but most of all he needed heavy hammers, and then he saw Naso with a group of bearded veterans coming with half a dozen. Ferox’s voice was hoarse, the smoke thicker than ever and carrying with it odd scents of roasts from the barrels of salted meat and the rancid smell of burning oil, but he kept on shouting and chasing. Dividing the men with tools into two groups, he sent Naso with one to start pulling down the barrack block on the far side of the burning building, while the rest were to work on the third granary. There was not the slightest hope of water dousing these flames, even if they had had a good supply and pumps and hoses, which meant that the only way to stop the whole fort from going up was to make a firebreak on either side of the blaze – and to pray.

  Any Brigantes he saw went to the walls if they were carrying weapons, and to help saving anything they could from the second granary if they were not. Ferox doubted that there was much risk of a surprise attack under cover of night and the confusion, but there was no sense in taking the chance, so Cunicius was at the main gate and told to keep a good watch. Many men he half knew or did not recognise at all had arrived with the legatus and most of these had their arms handy as they had not yet settled down to barrack life. There was another centurion with them and Ferox had told him to take all the men he could find and obey Cunicius, whoever was the senior. At a time like this, it was better to have someone who knew the layout of the fort.

  ‘Oh bugger,’ Vindex said, and pulled the wheel of Taranis he wore around his neck up to his lips to kiss it. The wind had shifted, and gusts were blowing the flames against the second granary. ‘Won’t be long now.’

  ‘Hurry!’ Ferox yelled at the men carrying sacks out of the building. One swayed as he watched, eyes gleaming in the red light, and then passed out, falling off the platform. The sack burst, grain spilling out. Ferox darted forward, starting to lift the man and then Vindex was with him and they dragged the soldier away. It was Vepoc. ‘Get some water!’ Ferox told another of the Britons.

  ‘Can I help?’ A man appeared, wearing an unbelted tunic which hung down past his knees. Ferox did not recognise him, but he spoke in Latin and had a beard and thick mop of hair so must be one of the veterans of I Minervia.

  ‘Take that axe.’ Ferox had spotted the tool lying a few yards away. ‘And go and help chopping down that granary!’ He pointed at the third one in the line, just visible. As he looked he saw a man prising a wooden shingle off the roof and throwing it down. If they were falling into the alley then they might burn there and spread the flames, so he turned to find someone to organise a party and make sure they were moved.

  ‘What?’ the man stared open mouthed.

  ‘That humping great building over there!’ Vindex shouted angrily, realising that the centurion was not listening. ‘The one we don’t want to burn down.’ He grabbed the axe and placed it in the man’s hand. ‘Well you take your chopper like a good little boy and chop the humping thing down!’

  ‘I am Aelius Hadrianus, legatus legionis.’

  ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘Quite.’ Hadrian was shouting over the roaring of the flames. ‘Is that Ferox?’

  Ferox had heard. ‘My lord!’ He raised his arm in salute. ‘Now if you would be so good, please take charge of the men working to pull down the granary. It’s our best chance of stopping the fire spreading that way.’

  Hadrian stared for a moment, then his beard split as he grinned. ‘Right.’ The grin widened. ‘And I’ll take my little chopper.’

  ‘Omnes ad stercus,’ Ferox whispered, knowing the sound would be lost with all the other noise.

  ‘Oh double shit!’ Vindex yelled as flames leapt up from the shingles on the roof of the second granary.

  ‘Get them out!’ Ferox screamed as he ran towards the loading platform of the building. Brigantes came tumbling out of the open double doors, some with sacks and some with barrels. Three men passed him, then two more. ‘Quickly!’ The heat was appalling, stinging his eyes so sharply that he struggled to keep them open. Another man appeared, panting hard and dropping an amphora to shatter on the planks. ‘You the last?’

  The man shook his head, then shrugged. Ferox helped him out. ‘Take him!’ he ordered Vindex. ‘Forget it!’ he called past the scout to a handful of men, including a recovered Vepoc, who were coming to save more of the stores. ‘Help with pulling the buildings down!’

  Ferox went to the doorway and looked in, crouching and trying to shield his eyes from the savage heat. He started to shout, but could only cough until he managed to spit. ‘Anyone left?’

  There were dozens of amphorae of olive oil stacked at the far end of the building. Some had been brought out, and another dropped so that it shattered and the thick liquid spread. As the roof caught fire, sparks and bits of burning wood dropped down, setting off the oil. Inside the amphorae the oil began to bubble as it heated up.

  Ferox saw the silhouette of a man against the sudden flame and then the blaze exploded and a wave of air flung him back out to fall flat on the platform. Someone lifted him, and he recognised Dionysius.

  ‘You all right, sir?’

  Ferox gasped for breath and nodded as he was helped away. Sabinus was there, and more men milling around. ‘Get them to work,’ he just managed to say. ‘Sabinus, take a dozen more men and all the equipment you have and tear down that barrack block. Julius, you help the legatus with the granary.’ He stood up, pulling free and waving them away. ‘I’m fine. Now go!’

  He doubled up, panting for breath, and heard the roaring as the second granary was devoured and some of the roof collapsed in a great flurry of sparks. Looking past it, he could see a wide stretch of bare rafters where the men were yanking off as many of the shingles as they could. That
reminded him and he headed off to make sure that they were not simply building a bridge for the flames. He was relieved when he reached the alleyway to see that men were already clearing it of the tiles and other debris pushed out as men hammered and hacked at the side wall. There were great gaps in this already, and another team was fastening hooks around one of the timber uprights, while a dozen others waited at the ropes to pull it down.

  ‘All clear,’ a deep voice shouted from inside.

  ‘All clear,’ a man answered.

  ‘Then one, two, three, pull!’

  Ferox joined the men on the ropes as they hauled. The rope took the strain, and men grunted as they used all their strength without shifting the timber again.

  ‘Again! One, two, three!’ Two more men added their weight and at last there was the slightest of movements.

  ‘Nearly there, boys.’ Hadrian joined them, and Ferox realised that he had been the one giving the orders. ‘One more time. One, two, three, heave!’ The timber cracked and with a jerk they almost fell as the top half pulled away from the rest.

  ‘Come on, we’re winning.’ They dragged again and pulled the timber free. ‘Get the axes.’ The legatus of I Minervia seemed to be enjoying himself, and Ferox noticed for the first time that he was wearing delicate sandals, suitable for dining, but not for demolition. ‘We’ll be fine,’ Hadrian told the centurion. ‘You check on the others.’

  ‘Sir.’ The alley was fiercely hot as the fire spread throughout the second granary and he wondered whether the firebreak would work. The third building was one of the ones packed with artillery, which meant plenty of wood, ropes and grease to burn if the fire got a hold. He was pleased to see that they had already started to pull down the end of the barrack block opposite the second granary, while the one opposite the first was now a ruin. Barracks always tended to be less sturdily built than the towering granaries, whose raised floors only seemed to fuel the fires once they started.

  Something fell onto the top of his head. He stared up at the clouds and another drop of rainwater splashed onto his chin. More came, pattering all around him.

  ‘We’re winning,’ he said as the downpour grew heavier.

  Some sense, some glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye warned him, and he threw himself down as something small whizzed through the air and banged into the wall behind him. He struggled to get up, exhaustion swamping him, so he pushed on his hands to force himself and just caught a glimpse of a figure running far down one of the alleys.

  ‘Centurion?’ It was Dionysius’ voice. ‘Can you get me more men?’

  The rain was still driving down and if it kept on they should be safe as long as they could all keep working. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said and lurched into a run to find them. Turning a corner, Ferox tripped and fell headlong, landing with a grunt as the air was knocked from him. He pushed himself up and saw that he had tripped over a body.

  ‘Dionysius!’ he shouted, hoping that the auxiliary centurion was close enough to hear him over the noise. It was a man’s body, well dressed with fancy shoes, although the once-bright white tunic was smudged with ash and grime. He was not dead, for there was the faintest gasp when he pulled the man by the shoulders out of the shadows. Ferox stopped, worrying that he had done the poor fellow additional harm, so started to search for signs of injury. The rain was still falling, although the nearest roof gave a little shelter and there was more light from the fires here. The man was a stranger. Ferox tried lifting the head slightly and at once his hand was sticky with blood.

  ‘Sir?’ Dionysius appeared and then saw the body. ‘Holy Isis, it’s Piso.’

  Near the road

  The same night

  BRASUS SAW THE clouds to the north east glowing a deep red and was glad. The gold had done its work, and the one who had taken it proved true to his word for himself and his men – at least so far. Rain was already falling steadily, and it was bound to reach Piroboridava before very long. That would help the Romans put out the fire and that was a shame. The forts these people built were so densely packed that a strong wind and a dry day could easily sweep flames through if the fire got a grip. No matter – the Romans would be hurt and would lose many of their stores. That would make them weaker, and unless this Ferox turned out to be a fool after all he would realise that he had traitors in his midst.

  ‘Tell me about the bridge?’ Brasus asked his companion as they walked their horses through the night.

  The other rider shrugged. ‘It is very big.’

  ‘Is it finished?’

  Another shrug. ‘There is a piece missing, but maybe they only put it in place when they want to cross.’ The Sarmatian did not hide his people’s contempt for the waste of effort when a boat sufficed for the journey.

  Brasus was not surprised by the warrior’s lack of interest. He would have to get word to the merchant to find out more or to look himself when he went back that way. It would be nice to know when the Romans’ great project would be complete, but it was not crucial for the king’s plan.

  ‘Tell me about this Roman?’ he asked instead.

  ‘The Bad Flavios? He came, he rode with us and feasted. None challenged him for his life, so he left us.’

  The clipped manner of speaking of the Roxolani and their kin could be irritating at times, and he had to work to find out what he wanted to know. The centurion had ridden willingly to meet the hunting party, bringing just a single warrior. He had talked to the chiefs for hours and they had judged that he was the same man some of them had known almost twenty years ago. He had not asked for anything, which was surprising, nor had he raised the question of the clans’ alliances with Rome.

  ‘He is a warrior,’ the Sarmatian said. ‘A bad man as his name proclaims. His friend is also a man.’

  ‘Some of the Romanoi are worthy foes, but enemies still.’

  ‘They are not us,’ the Sarmatian conceded.

  Brasus did not bother to point out that neither were the Dacians. The Roxolani cleaved to their brothers, their families, their kin and their clan, and their chiefs commanded because warriors chose to obey. They were brave, wild, greedy, fickle and great liars, but they could be useful. ‘Will your people answer when my king calls for them?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘The Getae and Celtoi will follow the king, and the Bastarnae, as well as many peoples in distant lands. And once Rome has gone you may live as you will.’

  The warrior sniffed. ‘To be a Roxolan is to live as each man wills. No one can give us that or take it away.’

  ‘So what will your chieftains do when the time comes? What will they and each warrior choose to do?’

  ‘As it pleases them, and as it pleases each man. We have no love for Rome.’

  That was encouraging. ‘The Romans have few shepherds to guard many sheep, and the sheep are fat and rich. This will be a good war.’

  ‘Then it will please us to fight with your king and his warriors.’

  ‘Good. That will please my king, just as it warms my own heart.’ He raised his hand to his shoulder. ‘Ride as free as the wind, my friend. And soon let us ride side by side and hear the terror of our enemies.’

  ‘Until that time.’

  Brasus rode alone through the night and was pleased that it took a long while for the glow off the clouds to fade altogether. He had met with many of the clan leaders in recent months, even visiting the same group just days before Ferox arrived, and there were friends of the king in many bands. He was encouraged and hopeful, if not fool enough to place absolute trust in any Sarmatian. At the very least there was little sign that they would join the Romans, so the Romans would worry that the Roxolani might ride with Decebalus or might just attack on their own while the empire was facing the bigger challenge of Dacia. Either way it should help, pinning garrisons in place and keeping the enemy spread out so that their defences were weak.

  The time was drawing close, and a summons to return to Sarmizegethusa surely meant that they were about to strike.
Timing was the key, and in the end this was all about time, for the king needed as long as possible to grow strong. In the past he had attacked to throw the enemy off balance, and this is what he would do once again. There would be more than one force, but this could be the main one for it threatened the enemy where he least expected danger. In the past, armies of Dacians and their allies had swept across the plains further south, especially in winter when the Danube froze and they could rush into Moesia, burning forts and plundering towns. The Romans knew this and had stationed more men in that area than ever before just in case. Soon an army would mass to strike there and they would see this and fix their eyes there. At this season the attackers would have to cross the river in boats, but there were plenty to be found and the winding river was long so that they would not be sure where the blow would fall. While this was happening, there would be attacks in the north, through the lands of the Iazyges, and far beyond them by the Suebi against Pannonia.

  The Romans should not expect the sudden outbreak of war, but when the storm broke upon them they would see what they expected to see and shift their weight to meet it. Then, while their eyes were elsewhere, an army would cross the mountains and come down this valley. They would be strong in warriors and bring supplies and siege engines. The only fort in their path was Piroboridava, and once past that the way was clear right down to Dobreta and the Romans’ bridge. This army would storm the fort, cross the bridge and sack the fort on the other side if they could, but, if they could not, at the least tear up and burn the Romans’ monument to their arrogance.

  None of this would win the war. Brasus knew that the Romans did not give in easily. In time their legions would mass and the army would be driven back – or better yet retreat before too many men had been lost. In the meantime the towers and castles of the kingdom would be repaired where they had been slighted, their defences would be made even stronger and their stores of food replenished, and they would be manned by warriors who had trained and grown confident. When the Roman invaders came, as they surely would, they would have to fight step by bloody step through the mountains and the months and years would pass while they did this. Any war not over by the depth of winter would fail as men froze or starved outside the walls of the Dacian strongholds. Decebalus could not win, but he could make it gruellingly hard for the Romans, and he could make it humiliating for their emperor. That was why a burned bridge mattered – not because it would hold the Romans on the far bank, for they had never needed a bridge in the past. Yet it showed them to be weak and hurt their pride and no ruler liked that. The king talked of men waiting to overthrow Trajan and perhaps he was right, for the drinkers of wine were as fickle and untrustworthy as the Sarmatians.