Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

‘Mostly,’ Ivonercus conceded. ‘Ferox is like the lone wolf, and they are dangerous. He is a ferocious and merciless fighter. He will not give in, even if the cause is lost, so that you must wonder whether he despairs of life. They say he had everything and yet threw it away because he does not value life or happiness. The queen…’

Brasus grabbed the Briton’s arm to silence him, although the man had already stopped in mid flow. One of the warriors had hissed a warning and they waited and listened. There were steps approaching.

Ivonercus had not spoken like this before, and part of Brasus wanted to know more. If the man had been speaking his true thoughts then it did not matter. Ferox was beginning to sound interesting. Perhaps he was one of the creatures who was different. Not a pure man, since that could not be, but a stranger who sensed or by chance followed something of the right path. That would not matter to the king, who would only care that this was a commander who would fight hard and by the sound of it skilfully. So be it. Such knowledge might change the way things were done rather than the plan itself. Brasus was beginning to think that it could work.

There was the sound of a man singing softly, his rather nasal voice wandering either side of a tune that was as old as the hills. One of the warriors smiled, for it sounded like one of the Getae.

Brasus drew his curved dagger and showed it to the warrior. The smile died, but the man nodded in understanding. They knew the instructions. If the wanderer did not find them then he was free to pass. Even seeing their tracks would not matter. Yet if he saw warriors, men he would guess were men serving the king, then he must die. The folk in this valley had sometimes been loyal and sometimes not. He might tell the Romans deliberately or by accident and for the moment the secret needed to be kept.

The warrior crept until he was leaning against the thick trunk of a beech tree. His own knife was in his hand.

Brasus looked again at the fort and wondered about this Ferox and wondered about the queen the Briton had mentioned. He sensed that Ivonercus regretted speaking of her and doubted that he would willingly tell more. The queen must be the sister of the king the man had served and Ferox had killed. The Briton had rarely mentioned her, and only ever with awe, perhaps fear, as if it was unlucky to speak of the royal house.

The singing faded, getting further and further away. Brasus kept them there for a long while, but they heard no more of the wanderer. Night was falling.

‘It’s time to go,’ he said.

THE STORY WAS simple enough. Manius Sertorius Festus had walked over to the parade ground to watch as some of his veterans marched groups of the Brigantes up and down. The warriors were formed into groups of thirty, mixing the men who had served in the royal cohort or other units with the rest for whom all this was new. After a slow start, progress was good, not least because everyone had realised that this was easier than labouring. Within a few days, they began to drill with weapons, which helped them all to feel more like warriors again. Festus had chosen instructors well, helped by the fact that many of the veterans had done this before and did not need to be watched every moment. They treated the Brigantes with a respect denied to raw tirones in a legion, picked up a few words of their language and taught the Latin commands simply, so that the whole squad and not simply the Latin speakers knew what they were supposed to do. Somehow, they made the warriors laugh, the humour simple and often crude, but enough to make the barked orders and even louder reprimands acceptable.

On this day, for the very first time, they had begun picking men from the squads to take over and drill the rest. They started with the senior soldiers, the experienced ones, and they did not do too badly. Then with the two hours of drill almost at an end, they asked if anyone else wanted to try. There were plenty of volunteers, for Brigantes were rarely short of confidence.

The centurion arrived just as they were starting, with four squads in a line along the long edge of the parade ground and the fifth and sixth formed opposite each other on the shorter edges. Festus came to stand beside one end of the main line, gesturing to the instructors to show that he was merely there to observe and did not want to take over.

‘Silentium!’ One of the Brigantes chosen to lead had a deep, powerful voice.

‘Siwentium!’ The other one was tall, the most corpulent man in the whole unit and one of the least bright. His voice was high pitched, and as he shouted turned into a squeak as he mangled the command. One of the instructors had picked him to remind the rest that this was not easy, and because a few laughs at the end of two hours of stamping and marching would do no harm.

There were sniggers from behind Festus.

‘ Iunge! ’* [1] Close ranks. The squad shuffled into close order, doing the manoeuvre well enough.

‘ Lungee! ’ The second squad was no less proficient in spite of the order. Behind Festus a man laughed, louder than all the others. The centurion glanced and saw that it was a tall, good-looking young recruit.

‘ Parati! ’ [2] Stand ready.

‘ Rapatii! ’

There were giggles now, and the youth was cackling, his face red. Festus glared at them and then at the closest instructor, who was not looking in his direction. With an effort, he stopped himself from interfering, but resolved to have a word with the instructors after the parade was over. This sort of behaviour would not do at all.

‘ Mole! ’ [3] March. The first squad stepped forward as one, prompting a satisfied grunt from the centurion. Done well, Festus found drill a very moving, almost spiritual experience.

‘ Mole! ’ The second squad responded almost as well, although he could see some of the soldiers were grinning. Behind him there was more laughter, the boy closest to him barely able to control himself. Festus gripped his slim vine cane with both hands to stop himself from intervening. The squads were marching towards each other, until they were fifteen paces apart.

‘ Sta! ’ [4] Halt. The first squad halted, stamping their feet as one, shields and javelins not jostling too much considering how little drill these men had received.

‘ Tsss! ’ The command was a piercing squeal. Grinning, and fully aware of what they were doing, the second squad ignored him and kept marching forward.

‘The daft bugger’s forgotten the order,’ someone said from the ranks behind him.

‘Quiet there!’ an instructor ordered, although he could not keep the amusement out of his own voice.

‘ Transforma! ’ [5] About turn. The first squad wavered a little, transfixed by the sight of the other group bearing down on them, before managing a ragged about face.

‘ Taaa! ’ The second squad were no more than eight paces away, still marching. ‘ Steeee! ’ The man’s voice somehow managed to become even higher. All the men behind Festus were laughing.

‘Move!’ The first squad started marching away, although some of the men in the rear rank were turning their heads to see behind them.

Instead of trying to remember the order, the big man ran in front of his own squad, waving his arms to make them stop. They quickened the pace instead. Sensing or seeing this, the first squad also began to take longer strides, the ranks becoming ragged.