The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  There was the sound of creaking wood as someone came up the ladder to the top of the tower, and he did not turn because he suspected it was Sabinus or one of the other officers and that he would have to admit that he had been wrong. There was a simple water clock under a little roof on the back corner of the tower, but he did not need to check to know that there was little more than a quarter of an hour until dawn. Ferox could feel it, and then heard the first chirrups of the birds waking to the new day.

  Someone coughed to attract his attention, but it was a gentle clearing of the throat, not only unmilitary, but distinctly feminine.

  ‘Good morning, centurion,’ Sulpicia Lepidina said. Her hair was in her usual bun, for the hood of her cloak had fallen back to show her pale face. ‘Or nearly morning, at least. I thought that you all must be cold and tired, so have brought soup.’ She held up a small, lidded cauldron. ‘I am afraid that there are no bowls, so you must all share the same ladle.’

  ‘That is kind, lady, but…’

  ‘If the “but” is to say that I should have provided for all,’ she interrupted with mock severity, ‘then I am disappointed to face such doubts.’

  Ferox heard low voices and the clink of metal on metal and realised that someone was walking along the rampart to his left, stopping at each man.

  ‘There is plenty for all,’ Lepidina went on, ‘and if you show surprise then I am disappointed that you have such a low opinion of a senator’s daughter. Supervising a meal for five hundred is straightforward compared to seating guests at a dinner.’ She laughed, not her wild bray when she let herself go, but a gentle chuckle.

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ Ferox said and gestured at the others, ‘but an officer should always eat last.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said approvingly, before the laugh returned. ‘Dear Claudia has been saying that you are getting fat!’

  Ferox could smell the hot soup as Lepidina removed the lid and each man went up and spooned out a few mouthfuls. He wondered why he had not thought of ordering food to be brought. That he expected there to have been a hard fight long before now was beside the point.

  ‘The children are well – all of them,’ Lepidina said, coming over to him now that the others had finished. They had all moved to the far side of the tower, grinning and bowing their heads to thank the lady for her kindness. Ferox had seen it before, how just a little hot food could lift a man’s spirits and breathe new life into him. ‘And she will be fine. She is a survivor that one, and has good folk with her. They will come back.’

  In truth Ferox had not been worrying about the cavalry – or at least it was no more than one amid many worries. They ought to be able to handle themselves, although it would be much harder if the Dacians had bypassed the fort in the darkness and fog and pressed on down the valley. They must be mostly on foot, judging from what Maximus had said, for it was unlikely that too many horsemen would have travelled hidden through the woods at the side of the valley. Still, if some of the Roxolani were back and they had arranged to join forces… That was not a comforting thought, although quite a likely one. At least the Brigantes were well mounted and knew how to ride if they had to flee, and even the handful of auxiliaries sent with the column were the pick of the bunch as regards men and their mounts.

  ‘They have a good chance,’ he conceded.

  Sulpicia Lepidina patted his hand where it held the parapet. ‘You will see us all through – as you always do.’

  Ferox hoped that was true, then panicked in case saying something like that was bad luck. ‘Well, I seem to have given us all a sleepless night for nothing,’ he said. ‘And they didn’t like me much before!’

  A horn blew, faint and distant, followed after a moment by the rasp of a cornu, much closer and louder.

  ‘East gate,’ Ferox said, as much to himself as anything else. ‘Excuse me.’ He loped past Lepidina to the back of the tower and shouted down. ‘Sound the alarm!’

  The three tubicines on the level below had already spat to moisten their lips and now raised the long trumpets and started the fanfare ending in a peal of three notes, repeated again and again.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Ferox called down. He could see movement around the nearest barracks as men ran out. Anyone who had not woken by now was unlikely to be roused by more blasts and he wanted to be able to hear any signals from the rest of the fort. Down below a horse was waiting in case he needed it to get quickly from one side of the fort to the other. There were no more trumpet calls, nor sound of ox horns from outside, and the only shouts came as the woken men were formed up. On the ramparts and towers – at least to the little distance he could see – everyone was alert and expectant, staring out into the mist. There was no sign of any threat here, and no noise of heavy fighting from the east gate.

  The gates were the weak spots as was bound to be the case. If this was a full assault with rams and other engines, then it was easier to knock down a gate than a section of timber and turf rampart. More likely, the enemy would hope to rush the fort and bring nothing more sophisticated than ladders and ropes, but even so they would attack near the gates because only in front of these were there easy paths through the obstacles and over the ditches. The porta praetoria was the most vulnerable of all, for even without this mist the houses of the canabae gave any attacker plenty of hiding places at night.

  ‘I suppose that I had better go,’ Lepidina said. ‘And get all the slaves to shelter so that we are not in your way.’ If she was nervous then there was no trace of it in her voice or manner.

  ‘It would be best, lady,’ Ferox said. ‘But thank you for the food.’

  Ferox was itching to run to the east gate, but that was not his job, not yet at least, and he had to stay here and wait for reports. This was where he had told all the officers that he would be and they all had instructions. In the intervallum behind him, some thirty men had formed in six ranks as reserve under an optio from I Minervia. Similar parties were ordered to wait at intervals around the fort, while Tiberius Claudius Maximus ought to be getting all the remaining mounted men in the garrison ready to ride at a moment’s notice. Their station was outside the principia, for the horses had been kept in its courtyard, which would no doubt need thorough cleaning when all this was over, at least if anyone was left to do fatigues.

  ‘Lady!’ Vepoc’s shout was harsh. ‘Stop, lady!’

  Ferox turned, fearing some treachery, only to see that the Brigantian was pointing to where the lady’s cloak had snagged on the upright top of the ladder. He bounded over and freed the material, for she was carrying her cauldron, had the ladle tucked under one arm and was using the other to hold the ladder.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him a dazzling smile and then vanishing down through the open trapdoor.

  Vepoc nodded. ‘We thank you, noble lady,’ he said softly, even though Lepidina had already gone.

  ‘Well done,’ Ferox said, but the Brigantian ignored him and simply went back to his place at the front of the tower.

  There was still no sign of anyone apart from the picket to their front. Light was growing, giving the mist something of a milky quality, but it remained so thick that he could not see far. Inside the fort the shouting had died away as everyone got into position, and Ferox could hear nothing from the east gate. That ought to be a good sign, for a real attack ought to make a lot of noise if the defenders put up even the mildest of struggles. Still, it was hard to wait, unable to see and not knowing what was happening.

  A horse came pounding across the grit pressed into the earth of the intervallum and skidded to a halt below the tower. One mounted messenger was stationed at each gate for this purpose.

  ‘Bolanus’ compliments, sir!’ the rider shouted up when Ferox appeared at the rail above him. ‘Dacians have shot arrows at us. One of the picket is wounded, but they have all come in. Still shooting at us, but no sign of any more.’ The man spoke the words as one well rehearsed. Bolanus was the other optio from I Minervia and a solid, very thorough soldier,
which was why Ferox had put him in charge at the gate.

  ‘Tell Bolanus well done, and to keep me informed!’ Ferox called, and in a moment the cavalryman galloped back the way he had come.

  There was some puffing and Sabinus appeared through the trapdoor. ‘Phew, what a climb. Must be getting old, eh, Julius,’ he said to one of the veterans from his legion who was on the platform.

  ‘I’ve got a son as old as you, sir,’ Julius replied with only a little exaggeration.

  ‘Tell him not to join the army,’ the centurion said, ‘it’s too much like hard work.’

  ‘Too late for that, sir. Hear he’s building some great bridge.’

  ‘That’s what I said, hard work.’ Sabinus came across to join Ferox.

  ‘You heard the report?’ Ferox asked.

  ‘Yes. You were right then – about the attack.’

  ‘We’ll see. It’s not a real attack yet.’

  ‘Dacians shot at them, sir?’

  ‘Yes, although I doubt that they saw any of them well enough to know who they were. Might have been naked nymphs and cupids for all they could tell in this damned mist.’

  ‘Think the lads would notice nymphs, sir,’ Julius asserted from a few paces away.

  The light was growing. Ferox could see almost all of the closest building in the canabae and the dim shape of the inn beyond it stood out in the white fog. He felt a breath of breeze on his face and wisps of the mist swirled across the grass in front of him. Then the wind died and the movement faded, but not before he saw something low scuttling between the buildings.

  ‘Bring in the picket,’ Ferox said. ‘Quietly though. Send someone out to bring them in.’

  ‘Sir?’ Sabinus was dubious, and Ferox had no energy to explain that he thought or sensed that he had seen someone in the canabae.

  ‘Now. And send men along the walls to get the scorpiones ready.’ During the night artillery was of little use because it was so hard to aim and there was no sense wasting bolts. Better to keep the engines covered up to protect them from the damp, but if an attack came now, it was clear enough to make a difference, and at least worth using the smaller machines. ‘Tell the men they’ll be coming soon – and send a runner to each of the other gates to alert them as well.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Just do it, centurion.’

  Sabinus went off. The fog seemed to glow brighter without making it any easier to see. Ferox squinted, out of habit rather than expecting it to make any difference. He saw the soldier walk out and call to the picket that they were relieved. That was good, for there was no sense in telling any enemies that they were waiting and ready. After the horn and trumpet calls, anyone with sense would know that the Romans were not asleep, but they would not be able to tell just how alert and prepared the defenders were.

  The picket turned, each of them stiff as decayed old men from standing nearly still for so long, until the senior soldier remembered that so many eyes were watching and barked at them to look smart. They started to march back up the path.

  Ox horns blasted, close and oddly loud as if echoing in the mist. There was a great shout, splitting into many individual cries as hundreds of dark figures came streaming up the slope towards the fort.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Julius gasped.

  ‘Run!’ Ferox shouted down at the picket. ‘Inside now!’ The soldiers stumbled into a lurching run, one at the rear dropping a spear. ‘Leave it! Get inside, now!’ The men broke into a sprint. Just one of the gates was open a few feet, with a team ready to close it the moment they were through.

  ‘Wait for the order!’ Ferox shouted, arm raised to signal even if few would be able to see it. The dark shadows of the enemy were becoming clearer, faint glints coming from spear points and the bosses of shields. Most were oval, not at all unlike the ones used by the auxilia and he could see plenty of men with helmets and probably armour. A dense knot of fifty or more were pelting up the road, closing with the picket and the open gate. Ferox never quite understood how time seemed to go fast or slow in a battle, but found himself imagining being put on trial for misconduct, with a stony-faced accuser throwing question after question. So when the enemy attacked you gave the order to run away? The order to leave a weapon behind? And it was you who had left the gate open so that the enemy could just run in?

  He laughed at the absurdity of the thought.

  ‘Sir?’ Julius asked.

  ‘Silures are all mad,’ Vepoc said. ‘Every one of them.’

  ‘Wait, lads!’ Ferox shouted.

  Warriors were at the edge of the obstacles and some started running onwards. Ferox heard the first scream as a man crashed through the thin layer of sticks covering one lillia and the stake drove into his thigh. Other men stopped where they were, raising their bows. Arrows hissed as they flew, arching high over the attackers towards the ramparts and towers. One struck the parapet just below Ferox with a dull thunk. He heard a hiss of pain, probably from someone on the floor below them.

  ‘Arrows and javelins, wait for the command. Aim for the ones on the road!’ Ferox shouted. There were barely a dozen archers on the walls in this sector and as always he wished he had far more, but he wanted them to wait until they were very close so that the volley would be strengthened by the thrown javelins.

  The picket was almost in, with the first man already through the gate, but twenty paces behind them the dense mass of warriors was coming on and another band of much the same size was not far behind. A few men were at the outer ditch, scattered and going carefully as they tried to thread their way through the pits, stakes and caltrops. More arrows came from the archers, one whipping past not far over Ferox’s head.

  ‘Loose!’ Ferox bellowed.

  It was hard to run fast and keep a shield upright, let alone present a wall of shields to the enemy. The knot of men staggered, seeming almost to jump back as arrows struck, closely followed by twice as many javelins. Half a dozen of the Dacians were down, others screaming in pain.

  ‘Scorpiones!’ Ferox called. His orders for the engines was to wait for his command for the first shot, but after that to use their own discretion.

  No shield would stop the bolt of even a light engine like the scorpio, least of all at this range. There were two on the lower floor of the tower, one more up here on the top platform and a couple in each of the neighbouring towers. All of these crews could see the attackers in front of the gate without any trouble and at this range it would be hard to miss.

  Ferox saw a man flung bodily by the strike of a bolt to knock down two of his comrades, and another whose head snapped back with the impact.

  ‘Got the bastard!’ Julius said with deep satisfaction as he began to crank the slider of the scorpio back for the next shot.

  Ferox heard the gate slam shut beneath him. Of the leading group of Dacians, almost a half were down, whether moaning or quite still, and the rest fled.

  ‘Stones!’ he shouted. ‘Pick your targets! Make each one count and kill them! Kill them!’

  Men were in the outer ditch, a few spilling over the top and charging at the next one, and far more working their way through the obstacles to get to it, and some of these were carrying ladders. On the road the second band was pushing on steadily, shields up and locked together. Ferox saw a flicker of movement and one of the shields shake as an arrow struck it and stuck fast. Then a scorpio stung, its bolt driving clean through to pin the shield to the man holding it. He fell and the wall of shields quivered, but the gap was there for just an instant before another took the dying man’s place.

  The air seemed full of arrows. Ferox leaned to one side to see down and felt the air snap as one flicked by where he had been a moment before. Another buried itself deep into the rail of the parapet, flinging up a big splinter. It was shorter than most, and he remembered facing such bows before. They were almost like little ballistae, from some old design he had heard was Greek, making it possible for one man to carry and shoot, but delivering more force over a short range than any ordinary
bow.

  Ferox reached for the shield he had brought and left leaning against the parapet. Yet he needed to see and could not simply cover himself. The Romans were sending back as many or more missiles than came in, so that there was a storm of arrows, spears and stones of the sort poets described even if few of them had ever seen such a thing.

  The scorpio beside him slammed forward again, spitting a bolt which created another gap in the shields.

  ‘Got the bastard!’ Julius said again.

  Without needing to be ordered, the defenders were lobbing stones or shooting arrows at whoever came closest. There were a few bodies at the foot of the wall, and more on the lip of the inner ditch, but still the Dacians came and still they screamed. Four carrying a long ladder were at the outer ditch when an arrow hit one on the leg. The three staggered on, down into the ditch, slipping and dropping the ladder, but others ran to them and they were hauling it up the other bank and down into the second ditch. A volley of stones and javelins hit them as they came up again, leaving the ladder dropped just at the foot of the rampart, with two dead or dying men around it and the rest, bruised and bloodied, back in the shelter of the ditch.

  ‘Got the bastard!’ Julius started cranking the slide back ready to shoot again.

  Ferox saw or sensed something coming and lifted his shield in time to cover his face as a point burst through the layers of wood and calfskin on both sides. It stuck there, lacking the force to go further, even though he had swayed back with the impact. He guessed that it was from one of the special bows, and wondered whether to try and spot the men with these and use the scorpiones to pick each man off one by one.

  For the moment, the raw power of the engines’ bolts had shattered the column coming up the road, leaving a debris of dead men as the rest retreated, like seaweed thrown onto a beach by the waves. Yet a third group was mustering on the edge of the canabae, swollen by the survivors of the earlier attacks. Someone was blowing a carnyx, one of the high bronze trumpets used by many tribes in many lands including Britannia and beside him there was a warrior who was surely a leader shouting and gesturing at the men.