Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

‘Oh, that fat mongrel!’ The boy closest to Festus managed to say before he could say no more for laughter, made worse as the second squad began to run, and everyone else ran to get out of their way.

Then the youth dropped his spear. It fell forward, the point close enough to twitch the hem of Festus’ cloak before it hit the ground. The centurion’s response was a reflex, as he spun around and swung his cane in his left hand, letting go with his right. If he was thinking at all, he probably meant to hit the soldier’s shield. Instead, the lad was already leaning forward, whether from laughter or to pick up his spear. Held wrong way up, the gnarled top of the centurion’s cane slammed into the youth’s mouth, so that he staggered back, blood coming from a split lip.

‘Stand to attention, man!’ Festus yelled. ‘And pick that up!’ He turned away, and his temper rose again because the parade was a shambles, the two squads mingled together, some running, some barging each other with their shields.

‘You!’ Festus almost screamed at the instructors. ‘Sort that disgrace out!’

There was a thud as the youth dropped his shield onto the grass and the scrape of a sword being drawn. Festus turned, frowning, small eyes staring and saw the youth coming at him, gladius held low, blood on his chin and growling. The centurion raised his cane, while his mouth opened to shout, but it was all so fast, so absurd. He was not wearing armour that day, because for much of the time he had supervised building work and had not wanted to be encumbered. Driven by rage, the triangular point of the gladius slid easily through his two tunics and undershirt into his stomach, angled up to thrust under his ribs. He grunted with the shock, as the boy made more animal noise and grabbed the centurion by the shoulder to pull him onto the blade. The cane fell from Festus’ hand and he gasped.

No one else had moved. There had been no warning and no time. The boy was screaming, trying to wrench his sword free and only then did other men drop their shields and spears and pull him away. Festus slumped, gave a long sigh and died.

‘Oh shit!’ the soldier standing next to the boy said.

The facts were simple, and Ferox understood what had happened very quickly; the boy, whose name was Andoco, had been struck by the centurion and had killed him in reply. Even so, he spoke in turn to all the instructors and all the Brigantes who had stood close enough to see and hear what had happened, and then to the medicus from the hospital who had examined the corpse and confirmed the obvious cause of death. Then he saw Sabinus, Dionysius and Cunicius, telling them all that he had learned in case they had anything to add. Cunicius testified that Andoco was a good soldier, too young to have been in the rebellion although sent by a family who had joined Aviragus’ rebels. So far his record was unblemished, and as a well-educated and intelligent lad, there was some expectation that in due course he would be promoted.

Sabinus added that he believed Festus was rather sensitive about his weight, fearing that middle age was turning muscle to fat, so that perhaps the boy’s comment about a fat mongrel provoked him more than usual. ‘Pity he spoke in decent Latin or all he might have got was an order to be quiet.’

‘Perhaps, but how often does Festus – did Festus – use his cane?’

‘Quite often,’ Sabinus admitted. That was common enough, especially in some legions and cohorts, and the only restriction imposed by regulation was that a centurion was not allowed to inflict serious injury without making a formal charge against a soldier.

‘I am sure that you recall my telling Festus how important it was never to strike one of the Brigantes.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sabinus conceded. ‘And I heard him repeat the instruction most forcibly to our men and up until this moment all obeyed.’ The centurion’s round face was worried, but determined. He took a deep breath. ‘Nevertheless…’

Ferox sighed. ‘Nevertheless.’

There was no easy way out, for a soldier could not simply fly into a rage and kill a centurion without being punished, and there was only one penalty for such a crime. An offence to personal honour was no excuse, and the only real question was how it was to be done.

Ferox went to see Andoco, his cell guarded by one of Vindex’s Carvetii and an auxiliary. The boy had chains around his wrists and ankles, and that was necessary, at least for the moment. With effort he stood when Ferox entered, as a proud warrior should in spite of his terror. Andoco had very pale, innocent eyes, adding to his childlike appearance, and Ferox knew from the records that he was eighteen.

‘I was angry, and struck in haste, but he should not have treated me that way,’ was all that he would say when Ferox asked him to explain what had happened.

‘I am not afraid,’ the boy added, lying well enough in the circumstances.

Half an hour later Ferox strolled down to the river, Vepoc beside him, neither man speaking. Vindex and a couple of his men, along with three other Brigantes, followed twenty paces behind. The rain had stopped, the clouds scattered and a crescent moon gave enough light to see with ease. None of the men carried shields, though all had a sword in their belt. By now the picket was far behind them and they passed through the dozen or so buildings of the canabae without seeing a soul. They were alone, and Ferox knew that he was taking a risk. Vepoc was Andoco’s older brother, the other men their cousins. At least this way the numbers were equal and whatever happened would be fair.

They reached the bank about twenty paces from the bridge and stopped. Ferox bent down to pick up a stone, hefted it and then lobbed high, hearing a splash when it landed. There was little ice left now. For a while he waited, for he must give Vepoc and the others their chance in case they wanted to take it. His own tribe were raised to cherish silence, so he did not feel uncomfortable, although the rare occasions when Brigantes were silent – and awake – were strange.

‘Blood calls for blood,’ Vepoc said eventually.

‘Aye.’

Vepoc was about Ferox’s age, and had served in the royal ala, rising to the rank of duplicarius , a ‘double-pay man’ second only to the decurion in each turma . There were stories that before that he had been a famous warrior and raider, which in truth meant much the same thing. He had killed warriors from other clans and tribes – and Romans – and lived to tell of it, just as he had lived through the hardships of the mines and kept his pride and his strength.

‘Just as a wrong calls for vengeance,’ he said.

Ferox did not know whether Vepoc spoke of the killing of Festus, or was referring to Aviragus. He had certainly fought for the king, and been considered dangerous enough to be sentenced.

‘If Andoco was a legionary,’ Ferox began, ‘then he would be flogged and beheaded, his head placed on a stake and the rest of his corpse denied proper burial. That is the way of the army, as you know.’

‘We are not Romans.’

‘Yet you are here.’ Ferox leaned over and found another pebble. ‘And you are oath sworn to serve the Lord Trajan.’

‘If you kill him then I must kill you.’ Vepoc did not mean the emperor. ‘The centurion was a fool.’ He had his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He did not move, and was not tense or giving any other sign that he was about to spring.

Ferox tossed the stone up and caught it. ‘There are many fools in the world, and plenty of them are chieftains and lords.’

‘Andoco is my brother. Oath or not, I must avenge him, and so must our cousins.’

‘I know. The Silures understand the calls of blood.’ There was no harm in speaking as one of his own folk, and not as the citizen and centurion.