Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

Vepoc sniffed in contempt. ‘Silures know nothing of honour.’

‘Yet any folk who have wronged us know how much we are driven to vengeance.’ Ferox reached back and threw the stone as far out as he could. There was no sound, so either he had reached a patch of ice or the far bank. ‘The choice is yours.’ He spread his arms wide and turned to face the warrior. If Vepoc wanted to kill him he had a good chance of drawing his sword and striking before Ferox could answer.

Vepoc did not move and was silent for a long while.

‘We will do it,’ he said at last. ‘Kin will slay kin on the orders of a chief so that justice will be done. Then there is nothing to avenge, since the man who gave the first insult has already gone to the Otherworld.’

Ferox lowered his arms to his side. ‘You have a day. I can give you no more.’

‘The Silures are a cruel folk,’ Vepoc told him. ‘To make a man wait so long for the end.’

‘The Silures are cruel folk, as all men tell,’ Ferox said. ‘Shall we go?’ Without waiting for an answer, he began walking back up the slope. Vepoc was one of the king’s men as were his cousins. If they wished to avenge the king’s death then they still had a chance, and could kill them if they were able and vanish into the night. On foot it would be harder to escape pursuit, but it was possible. He wanted to show them trust, and at the same time readied himself to dodge and fight if the attack came.

It did not, and Vepoc followed him for a few paces before speaking again. ‘One thing I must ask.’

Ferox halted and listened. ‘So be it,’ he agreed after hearing the explanation.

The next morning Andoco’s head was impaled on a spike over the porta praetoria . The boy had been freed from his chains and handed over to Vepoc and the others as soon as they all returned to the fort. Ferox had let them have a room in an empty barrack block that was being cleared for the rest of the unit when it arrived. The older brother and his cousins prepared a meal, and over the next hours men came to offer gifts or pay their respects to the courage of the young man. They were not just others who had served the king, and as men went to the room, paid their respects, ate a morsel and left, others saw and joined. Even some of the legionaries went, although this was not their custom. Sometime later in the night, Andoco kneeled down outside, bowed his head, and let his brother slit his throat. That at least was the story, for no one apart from the cousins were there and none of them said a word. Rumour also said that the boy was brave. Afterwards they cut off his head and carried it to the main gateway, where the sentries had been warned and Ferox was waiting. Vepoc said nothing, and with his own hands rammed the head onto the spike, for this was where enemies and criminals were to be displayed. No words were spoken. He caressed the dead man’s hair just once, and then left.

‘I do not like any of this, sir,’ Sabinus said. ‘It is so irregular.’

‘So are my men,’ Cunicius replied, and Ferox was glad to hear the hardness in his voice.

At sunset Ferox returned to the gate tower and waited for the Brigantes. Before they arrived he prised the head from its spike and wrapped it in a cloth. Then he stood, holding it in his hands.

Vepoc had painted his face white, so that it shone in the torchlight. On the road below waited his cousins, all mounted and carrying spears and shields. Andoco’s corpse lay across the back of another horse led by one of them, while each of the others drew a mule, one bearing provisions, the gifts given to the dead man and his weapons, and the other with bundles of wood and tools.

Once again no words were said, and the sentries had the sense to keep their distance and stay silent. There was something uncanny about the whole business, as if the entire garrison was holding its breath, unsure what was about to happen.

Ferox offered Vepoc the head, and the Brigantian took it. The centurion bowed and the warrior left, taking care as he went down the ladders.

‘I do not like this,’ Sabinus whispered as the Brigantes rode out through the gateway into the night. ‘How will we report it?’

Ferox did not answer, but leaned on the parapet as he watched them go.

‘The record will show that five men went on patrol,’ Julius Dionysius told him. ‘If pressed, it may be noted that one of the men was dead. The roster already shows the death of our lamented colleague, and the arrest and execution of his murderer as a warning.’

‘There’ll be questions,’ Sabinus went on. ‘There are bound to be.’

‘The responsibility is mine,’ Ferox said, still staring out, even though the horsemen had long since vanished into the darkness.

‘What if they don’t come back?’

‘Then we have a few more deserters,’ Dionysius said airily. ‘Or say they have been eaten by lions.’

‘They will come back,’ Ferox said, hoping that he was right. ‘The oath will hold them.’

‘The pledge to kill you?’ Sabinus was thinking back to the sudden, appalling burst of violence on the day Ferox arrived.

‘Perhaps,’ Ferox said, ‘or another.’

‘Brigantes keep their word,’ Vindex said. Sabinus started, for he had forgotten that the tall head of scouts was standing in the shadows. ‘Not like Silures,’ he added in the language of the tribes.

Ferox sighed. ‘Silures keep their word. It’s just that they hardly ever give it and promises don’t count.’

Sabinus shook his head, for Ferox had spoken in Latin. ‘I do not understand.’

‘I don’t think we are supposed to,’ Dionysius said.

On the following morning a pyre was prepared for Festus on the far side of the track opposite the parade ground. He had not been popular, for he lacked charm and his moods had been a little too unpredictable for the soldiers to accept him as a character. Yet there was grudging respect, a feeling that his death was a ghastly mistake, and also the desire of the veterani of I Minervia to see one of their own sent off in proper style. The centurion had liked things done to the letter of the regulation, so that is what they did.

In the afternoon they burned his corpse, and the preparations proved good because the heat was immense before the shelf collapsed and the centurion’s remains dropped into the flames. All, save the legionaries on guard duty or other essential tasks, were present, parading in their finest tunics, armour gleaming, leathers spotless, and those who had them wearing their dona and other decorations. Ferox was also in full uniform, the harness worn over his mail shirt heavy with medals, a torc at his neck and smaller ones around his wrists. Preparing all the gear was a task close to the heart of his freedman, Philo, who had done an exceptional job even by his standards. Up until now Ferox’s distinguished record was largely a matter of rumour and no more, and seeing all these awards for valour impressed even the most grizzled veterans, at least a little. Yet they were more satisfied to see that he was showing appropriate respect for the dead man and thus their legion.

There was no wind, so the black smoke climbed straight into the blue heaven and the sun’s warmth made it uncomfortably hot even some distance from the blaze. The last of the snow had melted down in the valley, although the heights remained white and that was unlikely to change for another month or more.

Ferox watched Festus burn and wondered how the mood of the garrison would change. They were still shocked and unsure, but that would not last forever. No one had stolen Venus since the day of the killing. At least the weather seemed to have turned as spring came slowly to the highlands and that ought to help. He would have to keep driving them, and that made him wonder about how to replace Festus. Ferox had not cared all that much for the dead man, finding him boorish and lacking in imagination. Still, he had met plenty of officers who were worse, and in many respects Festus had done his job well. From now on, he and the others would have more to do.