The Fort

by Adrian Goldsworthy

Dionysius gave a wry smile and hurried down the ladder. Ferox just heard one of the auxiliaries with him muttering, ‘Up, down, up, down, can’t the bugger make up his mind.’

  The Dacians had archers with the men over the river and these ran forward to the bank. It was a long shot, but as the riders urged their weary mounts to a last great effort arrows began to loop high in the air. One of the horses stumbled and fell, throwing its rider. Another man dropped from his saddle and lay still in the grass. There was nothing Ferox could do, for the range was too great. Someone went back for the fallen man and scooped him up to ride behind his saddle. The horse took an arrow, making it kick, but both men stayed on somehow.

  ‘Sir!’

  Ferox turned and saw the Dacians carrying a scorpio forward from behind the bath house. ‘Kill them!’ he ordered the crew on the engine next to him. Vepoc was loading again to his surprise, but then it was odd how some men took to machines. Ferox went to the trapdoor and shouted down to the crews below. ‘I want all the men with that ballista dead!’ The scorpio behind him slammed forward while he had his back turned.

  ‘Too low,’ Vepoc said.

  ‘Then get another arrow, you mongrel,’ the legionary said as he cranked the slide back.

  Cracking like whips, the engines on the lower level spat their bolts. Men on the ramparts cheered as one of the Dacians was flung down. Another followed as engines in the next tower joined in. The Dacians managed a single shot, which slammed into one of the last riders in the column. He shook in the saddle and the horse arched away from the terrible blow, shaking its head, but somehow they kept going and made it through the gate. All the men on the walls and towers were shouting now, and hardly noticed that the half dozen Dacians lay dead around their scorpio.

  XXII

  Piroboridava

  Ninth day before the Kalends of June

  IT WAS THE birthday of Germanicus Caesar, grandson of the divine Augustus, and a man dead some eighty-six years who had never been emperor, yet who was fondly remembered by the army. In morning orders, Ferox gave instructions for the supplication in honour of the long dead hero, although he doubted that it would be as lavish a celebration as usual.

  ‘Anyone too drunk to do his duty will get sent out to sober up among the Dacians, is that clear?’

  ‘No chance of that, sir,’ Dionysius said. All of the centurions except Petrullus were present and he was doing the rounds of the walls. ‘I can maybe squeeze a double ration of wine to issue today, but that is the most if you want it to last for a month.’

  ‘There’s always someone with amphorae stashed away,’ Ferox said. ‘Always.’ Dionysius was in charge of the food and was doing the job with thoroughness and ingenuity, although the picture was not good, in spite of having saved some of what was in the burned granary.

  ‘A month?’ Claudia Enica said. Since riding back in she was more inclined to speak up in these briefings and it no longer seemed odd in any way.

  Ferox doubted that they would last that long if no help came, but had set it as a target. ‘Thirty days. You said that we can manage that, Dionysius?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Fifteen days on near enough full rations and then another fifteen on half and we might just make it. The animals won’t though.’ There was fodder for the horses and the few pack animals in the fort for barely six days. As Ferox had expected, the cavalry had found only the debris of the convoy, the men slaughtered, animals dead or gone, waggons broken or burned, and their contents stolen or ruined. That meant that there was no more food or fodder, nor any chance of getting any more.

  ‘We’ll deal with that when what we have runs out. If we have to slaughter them then may as well have the meat as fresh as possible.’

  ‘Eat horse?’ The queen’s face was screwed up in distaste.

  ‘It’s not bad,’ Ferox said. ‘If you get it tender and cook it well.’

  ‘Barbarian.’ Claudia Enica shook her head. ‘But then we all knew that already.’

  ‘Is there enough salt?’ Ferox asked Dionysius.

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Well, commilitones,’ Ferox began, only to be interrupted by a cough from Claudia Enica, ‘and honoured royal leaders who like dressing up as men.’ That got a laugh, especially when she cuffed his head. ‘Do you want to be on a charge, girl?’ The queen held up her hands as if pleading for mercy, which made them laugh all the more.

  ‘Well, as I said, yesterday we upset the enemy’s plans.’ There were more grins. The Dacians had rested on the night of their arrival, the ox carts only arriving slowly. They camped in front of the fort, filling much of the valley with camp fires and songs. Ferox had wished that he had a few score of his fellow tribesmen to prowl the night and slit throats, but did not trust any of the still weary garrison to do such things. At dawn the enemy camp had stirred, and he had let several thousand warriors march across the bridge unmolested. Hundreds more, mainly archers, stood just out of range on all sides of the fort, but it was clear that the Dacian leaders planned to screen the garrison and march on with the bulk of their army.

  When the first cart was nearing the bridge, Ferox signalled for the monâkon to be made ready. Ephippus was with them, the machine aligned by marks painted on the timber rampart that they had built in front of it. Neither he nor his crew could see the bridge, but they all knew just how to tighten the washers and crank the tension on the springs.

  ‘Now!’ Ferox shouted as the leading yoke of oxen plodded onto the timber of the bridge. He watched as Ephippus made a sign to ward off the evil eye, shut his eyes and then pulled the cable to release the catch. The arm slammed forward and the stone flew high. Ferox was sure that he could hear the enemy gasp, but knew it must be his imagination. He followed the arc of the pale grey stone as it went higher, seemed to slow and then was going down, faster and faster until it struck the leading ox on the head, smashing it into bloody ruin, and took the front legs off the animal alongside it.

  ‘Beautiful!’ he had shouted down. ‘Another one!’

  The second hit the rail of the bridge, breaking the wood apart and sent big splinters slashing into the men trying to cut the dead ox and its mutilated companion free from the yoke. Ten more shots followed, and a couple splashed into the river, but the rest slammed onto the bridge itself, shattering the cart and killing men. After that they stopped shooting.

  ‘Tell Ephippus that he could not have done better,’ Ferox said to Sabinus. ‘And tell him that I will do what he wants.’

  Claudia Enica arched an eyebrow at him as the centurion left. ‘Please tell me that you are not changing your inclinations, husband? Not after all this time.’

  ‘Such vulgarity would be more becoming from Achilles,’ he said. ‘You have spent too much time with him.’ Claudia’s dwarf was also a fine book-keeper, and was now helping Dionysius manage the provisions. With Sulpicia Lepidina ‘assisting’ – which meant taking over, but doing it politely – the sole surviving medicus ran the hospital; this was becoming a truly unorthodox garrison.

  ‘One needs intelligent conversation sometimes,’ the queen said. ‘But tell me then, if it is not shameful, what is it our Greek engineer desires?’

  ‘He wants to build an acropolis.’

  ‘Typical Greek. It will be a gymnasium next, have no doubt, and then a theatre.’

  Ferox explained that Ephippus believed he could build them an inner stronghold, based around the stone buildings where they could hold out for at least a while if the enemy came over or through the walls.

  ‘Seems wise,’ she allowed.

  ‘Yes, it is. But I do not want to start planning for retreat too early. Not good for the men’s spirits.’

  ‘I see, although I am not sure that you are right. Their spirits are high, all of them, and from what I hear of the hospital none will want to give up. You should trust them more.’

  ‘And you should wear trousers when you climb up here.’

  ‘It’s good for the men’s spirits,’ Claudia Enica said dismissively. ‘You should tr
ust me. Have I ever been wrong in the past?’

  ‘Well that could just be fluke.’

  ‘It is the blood in my veins and the souls reborn in mine. We will win and that is all there is to it.’

  ‘Yes, my queen. Now, let us take a tour round the walls – and I am going first down the ladder and you follow me.’

  ‘Lecher.’

  A few hours later the Dacians had cleared the debris and tried again to cross the bridge, this time with pack mules. Six shots maimed several beasts, made one jump into the river and scattered the rest. That was the end of it for the day, but Ferox was pretty sure that they would try again overnight and was absolutely certain when he heard the Dacians chanting, no doubt to cover the noise. The mist had risen again, the first time since the attack, so that they could not see anything, but Ephippus aligned the frame with the paint marks, made the same adjustments to the machine, and then lobbed a stone.

  ‘Four more!’ Ferox told him as the chanting broke down and they heard screams.

  Throughout the rest of the night, he had them shoot the monâkon every half hour or so and sometimes there were screams and sometimes the distant thud of the stone landing. During the course of the day and night they used a third of the rocks prepared as ammunition, but Ferox reckoned that if he could convince the enemy that the defenders could always pound the bridge whether or not they could see it, then they would believe that trying to cross was hopeless until the monâkon was destroyed. They used ten more stones at dawn, before the mist cleared and by the time he had gathered the others for his morning orders Ferox was convinced that they had frightened the enemy.

  ‘We’ve made them angry, so it’s just a question of when they attack,’ he told them. ‘They’ll want to get on and not waste time here. In the bigger scheme of things, we don’t matter, but we are stopping them and the longer we can do that the more secure Dobreta becomes and the more chance there is that they will gather a relief force. The noble Hadrian promised to do everything in his power – and he is a capable and influential man.

  ‘So that means we have to hold and keep on holding until help comes. The more they hurry the more likely they are to make a mistake. I’d love them to attack today, but I don’t think they are that stupid. Instead they’ll start digging and building cover, so that they can bring up their own engines and maybe build some more. All the while they use their archers to nibble at us, but we must not waste all our arrows and bolts chasing them away. Unless they are covering an assault party or workers doing something we don’t like, then ignore them. Tell the men to keep their heads down and let the fools waste their arrows – which we can collect and shoot back at them when it matters. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As predicted, the Dacians sent several hundred archers, some on each side of the fort, but at first they did not shoot. At noon trumpets blared and three horsemen rode slowly up the track to the porta praetoria. One carried a vexillum, with an image of a galloping horseman on it barely visible because it was draped in ivy. Beside him was a man with an ox horn trumpet and in the lead a young warrior, wearing a scale cuirass, but with a high red cap instead of a helmet, marking him out as a nobleman.

  ‘They want to talk,’ Ferox said, waving down the crew itching to shoot the scorpio. ‘No shooting!’ he shouted. If the enemy wanted to waste time, then that was no concern of his. ‘No shooting! Let them come on.’

  ‘I suppose they’re giving in,’ Claudia Enica said quietly as she stood beside him. For some reason she had one of the Brigantes carrying their vexillum standing behind her.

  ‘Bet the goddess has ’em terrified,’ Ferox whispered.

  ‘Pig.’

  The Dacian nobleman was either new to his horse or not the best of riders, for the animal shied, turned half sideways and took the last few steps crabwise. Then it tried to turn away and he had to drag it back with the reins. Ferox watched, not wanting to interrupt.

  ‘In the name of Decebalus, King of Dacia, Lord of these lands, the god’s prophet on this earth and master of the pure.’ The nobleman managed well, speaking decent Latin, until the horse spun around so he was facing away from them.

  Claudia Enica laughed, an oddly light and feminine sound in such a place. Finally, with brutal use of the animal’s bit, the Dacian brought himself and his horse back around. Even at this distance Ferox saw the man’s eyes widen when he saw a woman standing above the gateway, her polished armour glinting in the sun. Then his gaze went higher and his mouth fell open when he saw the flag, with its bare-breasted goddess. He stared, as if mesmerised.

  ‘Was there more?’ Ferox called down.

  Snapping out of his surprise, the man coughed and then resumed. ‘The king wishes to avoid war and needless bloodshed. Although he can no longer permit the pollution of our lands by the presence of unbelievers, he wishes for peace with Rome and its emperor. If all the Roman soldiers leave our lands they may go free and safe and we shall have peace.’ The words sounded rehearsed, and probably those of someone more senior for the young aristocrat did not look or sound stupid enough to be so tactless in negotiation. ‘You may all go free and march away with your pride and honour intact, taking all your possessions. That is the promise of the king.’

  Ferox stared down, saying nothing. The Dacian waited, his horse now happy to stand where it was. There was muttering behind him, and he caught a ‘Tell him and his king to go hump themselves,’ no doubt from Vindex.

  ‘Your commander, Longinus, is a prisoner of our king as are all his officers. They are surety for the good behaviour of their men as they retire. The men who were at the king’s stronghold have marched away and soon all the others will follow. You are the only garrison still to accept the king’s mercy. Why delay?’

  Liar, thought Ferox, but still said nothing.

  ‘What is your answer?’ the Dacian shouted after a long silence. ‘Yes or no.’

  ‘Can we think about it for a few days?’ Someone behind him laughed nervously.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a big decision.’

  Vindex sniggered.

  ‘Yes or no!’ The aristocrat was growing angry. ‘If you refuse you will all die here.’

  ‘Ah well, you did not say that. But are not men born to die?’

  ‘Well they’re born stupid, at least,’ Claudia said, prompting more laughter.

  The Dacian moved to say something and then stopped. His face was growing redder.

  ‘And when you say we can take everything with us – how about the buildings?’ Ferox was doing his best to sound serious.

  The Dacian’s temper erupted. ‘So be it! You will not accept the king’s mercy so you will all die! The whore as well!’

  ‘Think he means you,’ Claudia told Ferox. ‘He must have heard the stories.’

  Vindex doubled up as he laughed, and the mirth was infectious as the herald and his escort rode away. As they galloped past the foremost archers, the nobleman waved his hand and the first arrows took flight. The range was long, but most struck the parapet or lower down on the rampart. No one was hit. At this range there was plenty of time to see each one coming and either duck or raise a shield.

  ‘Remember we do not waste bolts or arrows,’ Ferox told Sabinus and the other officers once again. ‘One arrow, one dead Dacian. Anything else is a waste. Have one of the scorpiones knock one or two of them on the head every hour or so to keep them honest but that’s all.’

  The men obeyed, and as the archers realised that no missiles were coming back at them they cautiously edged a little closer over the next few hours. The scorpio on the top level of the main gate spitted two archers and grazed another during the course of the day, but the few others to shoot missed as many times as they hit and Ferox sent word for the crews to calm down and wait. Instead a small number of men did duty on the walls and took care to dodge the arrows. Any looping high and coming over the top were collected and kept if they were good enough to use again. Those stuck in the timber of the ramparts
and towers could wait for nightfall when it would be safer to salvage what they could. They could see the Dacians lifting artillery down from carts and working on other engines, but they were too far away to reach with anything apart from the monâkon and Ferox did not want it shifted lest they lose the concentration on the bridge, so they let the enemy work. Now and again the sound of hammering drifted over the walls. Only when some Dacians started setting up a timber palisade not far from the burnt out remains of the inn did he order the two bigger ballistae they had on the lower levels of the corner towers to lob some stones and shatter the still flimsy barricade.

  Ephippus began work on his acropolis, starting with a turret in the alley behind the principia that was to be as high as the towers on the wall. He was also exercised by the thought of preparing plenty of boiling oil.

  ‘The fire would be dangerous, though, if we had braziers in the towers of the gates,’ he admitted.

  ‘If by dangerous, you mean we could easily burn ourselves to the ground, then yes,’ Claudia said.

  ‘Boiling water?’ Sabinus suggested.

  ‘Still the problem of heating it,’ Ephippus said. ‘I can rig up pulleys and ropes to haul cauldrons full of it onto the tower after it has been heated, but it will be delicate and easy to spill, so that those hauling the ropes will have to be careful. Or you could have men carry it in smaller vessels, either to pour on their own or add to a bigger one. It will lose heat all the time though.’

  ‘Some oil or tar to be flung down would be useful,’ Ferox said. ‘A flaming arrow would set it alight when we are ready. There is just about room for a small brazier on the walkway. If that falls back there is only turf to singe and not wood to roast.’

  Ephippus snapped his fingers. ‘Hot sand!’

  ‘Sounds like the sort of treatment that doctors recommend for invalids,’ Claudia said. ‘Might hurt a bit, but surely would not kill.’

  ‘The Tyrians used it against Alexander’s men,’ Sabinus told them. He shrugged with embarrassment. ‘I do read sometimes. They say it got down tunics and inside armour, scorching men, so that they either fought on in pain or took off the armour and were vulnerable.’