The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Julius?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Look down the road. See the column massing and the active little fellow egging them on?’

  The veteran squinted and then grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Kill him for me.’

  ‘Pleasure, sir, I—’

  Ferox heard the dull thump of the blow and suddenly where the veteran’s left eye had been was a thick shaft with leather flights. Julius’ head had snapped back, and then he sighed as he dropped to the plank floor. The veteran who had been loading gaped at him, mouth hanging open. Ferox rushed over. It was years since he had used a scorpio, and the machine felt odd and awkward in his hands as he raised the end and tried to aim.

  ‘Come on, lad, load for me,’ he said to the soldier who was older than he was. Snapped from his shock, the man laid the bolt onto the slide. Ferox was searching for the leader, but could see no sign of him, and as the column was starting to lumber forward he aimed at that and pulled the release. The slide slammed, somehow seeming slower from this angle than from the side, but he could see no sign that he had hit.

  ‘You, Flavius isn’t it?’ Half the army seemed to be called Flavius these days, but the name struck a chord.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Know how to shoot this?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then take over. Vepoc, you load for him, you’ve seen it done even if you’ve never done it. Just keep your fingers out of the way when it goes off!’

  ‘Centurion!’ A voice that had been on the edge of his hearing for a while now sank in. ‘Centurion!’

  Ferox ran to the back of the tower and looked down to see two riders below.

  ‘Centurion Dionysius reports that the porta decumana is under heavy attack, but that he and his men are holding,’ the first said.

  ‘Bolanus’ compliments,’ the second began and then coughed for a while. It was the same rider who had come the first time. ‘Sorry, sir. His compliments and says that there are a lot of archers shooting at them, and a strong force of soldiers hanging back, but no sign of an assault yet.’

  ‘Do either need support?’

  ‘No, sir. The lads are holding well.’

  ‘Good, tell them we’re winning here as well.’

  For a moment the cheering and chanting of the enemy slackened as trumpets blared out the alarm and then followed with another signal. Ferox ran and almost jumped down the ladder to the next floor. Sabinus’ head was just through the trapdoor coming up from the lower floor.

  ‘The west gate?’ he shouted.

  ‘And a break-in!’ Ferox was far enough down to leap the rest of the way, his boots banging onto the floor. ‘Out the way!’ he said to Sabinus. ‘Stay here and take charge while I find out what is happening.’

  ‘I should go,’ the centurion had to shout because the Dacians were surging forward again and their battle cries had redoubled.

  ‘You’ve got enough to do,’ Ferox said and almost hauled the man up and off the ladder before rushing down. He no longer had the shield and could not remember dropping it, and then he was out on the rampart top. A Dacian appeared beyond the parapet, his helmet tall with a thin metal crest in the centre, and a curved sica sword raised behind his shield. A Brigantian was there and rammed a spear against the warrior’s shield so hard that although it did not break through the wood the force pitched the Dacian off the ladder and he fell screaming. Ferox was close enough to see the top of the ladder and he pushed, trying to topple it, but there was weight from the climbing men.

  ‘Help me, lad!’

  He had wanted the Brigantian to add his weight but instead the lad, for he was little more than that, leaned through the gap in the parapet and flung his spear down. The weight was suddenly less, as the falling warrior knocked another off on his way down and with a grunt Ferox was able to tip the ladder back.

  ‘Well done, boy!’ Ferox said and rushed down the steps cut into the rampart. His horse was there, waiting for him, held by a galearius. The mist seemed clearer down here or perhaps more time had passed than he thought. Ferox turned his run into a leap, landing hard in the saddle, so that the mare protested and bucked until he had calmed her.

  The light was changing again, and he saw that there was a red glow from behind the dim shape of the praetorium. Ferox kicked the horse hard and cantered down the road, terrified that he had made the worst mistake of all.

  Outside the fort at Piroboridava

  The same night

  THE PLAN WAS a good one, well thought out and prepared, and Brasus had been proud of it, for in his mind’s eye he could see the warriors swarming into the fort and cutting its garrison to pieces. He knew this ground, had studied it, considered it, just as he had thought long and hard about the fort and its defences. The king had sent him almost two thousand men, a quarter of them archers, and with them came half a dozen chieftains old in war, but not too proud to take the orders of one so young. Brasus had led them all to see the Roman fort the day before the attack and covered the ground they were to cross. There were five columns, two of five hundred men each to attack the front and rear gates, another of six hundred men in reserve under his own leadership and the rest split into two parties whose job was to threaten the side gates and keep the defenders busy. For three nights he had walked the routes each was to take, going as close to the fort as he dared, but noting the landmarks that would help them all to find their way. Then, when all were waiting ready to launch their attacks, his trumpet would sound and they would head for the enemy.

  Pride was dangerous for the pure, so perhaps it was his fault, but almost at once it all began to fall apart. Brasus was leading his own column and he got lost early in the night. He still could not understand how this had happened, but somehow they arrived at the river where the banks were steep and hard to cross. He knew the spot at once and that it was a mile or more from where he was supposed to be. Men stared at him, wondering, and then before he could make up his mind the first scrambled down the banks and waded across. It took a lot longer than it would have done at the ford, and left them all soaking and muddy, with more than a few lost shoes, but they were across and he tried to judge as best as he could the right direction to take him where they were supposed to go. The moon had not yet risen and clouds were low and getting lower, with thin tendrils of mist so close a man could almost think that he could grab them.

  Brasus was walking near the front, with just a few of his own band of warriors a little ahead as scouts. Suddenly they stopped and word came hissing back that there were people ahead of them. Cautiously, Brasus went forward just in time to see one of the guides coming back towards him. He was at the head of the second column and they were hopelessly lost, which meant shouts and anger and trying to sort everyone out. Eventually they started going once again, and he kept the other column moving within bowshot of his men and parallel to them. Soon after that they all walked into a mist that became a thick fog and the true chaos began.

  By the end of the night Brasus felt that he had walked three or four times as far as the distance he was supposed to have travelled, even allowing for his earlier mistake. Men got lost and confused and now and again there were shouts as they tried to find each other. Then as suddenly as all the other surprises he found that he was walking on the planks of the bridge below the fort and had no real idea of how he had got there. There were barely fifty men with him and he guessed that it was two hours before dawn, long after he had meant to attack.

  Brasus told his men to wait and walked to where the others were supposed to be. There were a couple of dozen men from the first column sheltering behind the building where the Romans performed their ritual bathing, but as yet no sign of the second or fourth columns. The fifth was to threaten the east gate and there were more than a hundred of them where they should be, joined by a score or so more almost as soon as he turned up. Resisting the temptation to take some of these to reinforce the rest, Brasus trusted to faith and the guidance of the Lord Zalmoxis and told the chi
eftain in charge here to wait for the signal for the attack would still go ahead before dawn. By the time that he was back by the river things were more encouraging. More than two hundred men from the first column had arrived and a few score men for his own force, including thirty Bastarnae, wild folk as cruel as they were brave and unpredictable since they were either loyal to the death or lightly treacherous.

  Brasus waited and more men came in, and if all were weary at least they were here. Three-quarters of the first column were just where they should be, although barely a third of his own men. Then a panting runner arrived to say that the second column was on its way and ought to be in place before very long with a good half of their numbers. Brasus stood on the bridge, hearing the water flow underneath and stared at where he knew the fort was, even though he could not see it. Fate was strange, and the guidance of Zalmoxis a mystery for now the fog that had confused them was in their favour because it would hide them from the Romans just as well as the veil of night. There was still time.

  Dawn was close when the horns blew and Brasus realised that the chieftain must have thought that he wanted the east gate attacked whatever else happened. His own men were on their way to the west of the fort, with, as far as he knew, no sign of the men who were supposed to lead the way. No matter, the plan was still sound and the faithful would prevail over the unclean. Brasus jogged over to the chieftains in charge of the first column.

  ‘Go!’ he shouted. It was enough for they knew what to do. As Brasus ran to join his own men he heard a great shout challenging the night and his blood thrilled to the sound. Before he reached his own men there were more trumpets and cries from the far side of the fort.

  ‘My lord!’ a voice called from out of the white mist. ‘We are here!’

  Brasus took his time because this was the key to it all. The attacks on the two main gates would keep the enemy busy, but unless the god was truly kind to them they would not break through, not on their own. The west gate was the key, because he reckoned that it was the least vulnerable to be rushed and that because of this the Romans would not watch it as carefully.

  Brasus chose fifty men to make a charge at the west gate, with the Bastarnae and a dozen others to follow them. Of the remainder, sixteen were to start crawling across the field, their backs covered in dark cloaks, and the other five came with him. They also had drab clothes and cloaks, although the black paste they had smeared on their faces was of less use now. They began by crawling until they reached the outer ditch, where they headed to the left, towards the corner of the fort. No arrows came and no sentries shouted. Brasus was trusting to the darkness and fog, and most of all to the instinct of the Romans in the corner tower and on the rampart to watch the big attack unfolding and pay little heed to quiet and empty fields. They went slowly, and one by one slipped out of the first ditch and into the second.

  The noise of battle ebbed and flowed and the light slowly grew, although the mist did not thin or rise and made it hard to tell which direction sounds came from. His own men attacking the west gate were close enough to be sure and he heard them shout and then scream as they were hit by arrows or javelins. There had been no ladders left over for them to use, which meant that the assault was little more than a sham, but it sounded as if they were giving their lives willingly by pressing close.

  Brasus slid over the edge of the ditch, saw no one on the rampart above when he glanced up and dashed to reach the foot. Another warrior followed him, then another, while the next man was stringing the bow he had carried on his back. Brasus had his falx, the great curved sword that took skill and strength to use, in a scabbard slung on his back, along with a coil of rope, and two straight daggers in his hands. One of the men crouched down so that Brasus could stand on his back and start to climb, thrusting the knives into the piled earth to help.

  A shout from above, then the twang of a bow and the Roman dropped back from the parapet with an arrow in his face. Another Roman appeared, then gasped as the men who had been crawling forward sprang up, hurling aside their cloaks. The pause gave the chance for the archer to string and lose another arrow, which hit this Roman in the throat. Brasus was almost at the top and jabbed the knives in just below the wooden parapet so that he could stand on them as he hauled himself up.

  There was no one in front of him and he got onto the top of the parapet and then jumped onto the walkway. A man was coming at him, but the archer loosed again and the Roman hissed as the arrowhead punched through the palm of his hand. Brasus crouched, drawing his blade two-handed and slicing a chunk out of the plume on his captured Roman helmet with the same fluid motion.

  Another Roman pushed the wounded one aside. This one had an oval shield, a gladius held low and was protected by an old bronze helmet with flat neck guard mail armour and. He had a moustache and Brasus wondered whether he was one of the Britons. A trumpet was blowing as the men attacked the gates and there was shouting and the heavy thumps as the Romans shot their engines.

  Brasus stood, his falx raised high above his head. Behind him, one of his warriors was scrambling onto the walkway. The Briton twitched his blade and shield, feinting, but Brasus was not to be drawn and waited. With a roar the Briton rushed at him, shield up and jabbing forward to punch with the boss. Brasus was quicker. He shifted slightly to the left, so that he was on the edge of the walkway and swung down hard. The falx was end heavy, its tip like a spearpoint and there was a hollow ring like a cracked bell as it went through the bronze of the Briton’s helmet. The man jerked convulsively, pushed his shield feebly at Brasus before dropping it and his sword. Brasus staggered for a moment on the brink and then jerked the blade free. He grinned, the power of the god filling him.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted to the men behind him and ran towards the gateway. The wounded Roman, perhaps another Briton, screamed in terror and flung himself from the walkway, bouncing and rolling down the slope into the fort. Brasus ignored him and went on. A legionary with a rectangular shield stood in his path, holding a stubby spear, until an arrow sprouted from his ear, having found one of the few vulnerable spots in the side of his helmet, and Brasus would have thought such a thing remarkable luck if he had not known better. The Roman dropped, and a Dacian appeared above the parapet.

  Brasus ran on. A Briton appeared, and the downward swing of the falx smashed through his upraised shield and beat the man to his knees. Brasus yanked it free, struck again and the shield broke apart as the Briton gaped because his severed hand was still holding its grip as it fell away. A third cut went through the mail armour, through the ribs and into the wounded man’s chest. Brasus had to put his foot on the dying man to draw his blade free.

  ‘The gates!’ he shouted. ‘Down here!’ Perhaps five men were following him and he saw a score or more of Romans waiting on the road some fifty paces behind the gateway, but they were not moving. Two auxiliaries appeared in front of him, and then the one on the right took a spear in the face and there was a yell of triumph from one of his own warriors who must have thrown it from up on the wall. Brasus ran at the other, dodged the thrust from the man’s javelin and this time scythed a great horizontal blow. The man’s head flew through the air as his neck jetted blood high like a fountain.

  ‘The gate!’ Brasus shouted again, and had to spit because there was his enemy’s blood on his lips and face. ‘Open it!’ Three of his men rushed at the nearest, cutting down a Roman who stood in their path. There was shouting, commands in Latin and one of the Romans’ trumpets blowing, but no one else was trying to stop them and in a moment they were lifting the bar.

  Brasus turned to watch the Romans on the road. They were coming on, clashing their spear shafts against their shields, but there was something weak and unconvincing about the sound.

  ‘Fight me!’ Brasus shouted in Latin. ‘Or are you a coward?’ He brandished his falx, trying to provoke one of them, ideally their leader, to face him in single combat and give his men more time to get the gate open.

  It worked. A tall, broad-shoulde
red warrior stepped forward, holding up his hand to stop the rest.

  ‘Pig, whoreson, I will feed you to the dogs!’ the man yelled in a voice sounding a lot like Ivonercus. The Brigantian had got lost in the fog, and Brasus wondered whether or not he had caught up by now.

  Brasus let the man come to him, bringing the falx back up into a high guard.

  ‘I am Bellicus of the Brigantes and I spit upon you.’ The man turned back to face his men and waved his shield and sword high. They cheered and Brasus let them, still waiting for the Briton to come at him. He heard a creaking and guessed that the gate was opening. A Roman trumpet from up on the tower blasted a signal out.

  The Briton came forward carefully, step by step, always balanced, his shield out and sword back ready to thrust. ‘You will die, scum,’ he said and only his chatter made him seem nervous, but perhaps that was the way of his people.

  There was a roar, a wonderful Dacian roar, as the first wave of attackers rushed through the gate, but the warrior was still coming on and Brasus did not let his gaze leave his opponent for an instant. Instead he sprang forward, feinted left and then went right, the Briton turning his shield to face. Brasus swung down, not to strike the man, for he was still too far away, but hooked the top of the shield and pulled, gambling that the Briton would never have seen such a move before. The man gasped and let the shield go. Then he turned and ran as feet pounded past Brasus and a couple of dozen of his warriors charged forward. The Roman formation broke apart as the men panicked and fled.

  Brasus let the rush pass him as he panted for breath. An older man appeared, followed by two more carrying packs.

  ‘You know what to do?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’ The old warrior had lost all his front teeth in some ancient battle so that his grin was a strange one. There was no sign of the deserter who should have been with them to show the way.