Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

The sound of hoofs on the planking of the bridge made him turn. A rider was coming, an auxiliary trooper riding a foam-flecked horse. He recognised neither the trooper nor the mount, so this was a stranger and surely a messenger. He tried to push down the thought that any news or orders arriving during a funeral were unlikely to be good.

‘Dismiss the parade!’ he ordered Sabinus. ‘Let the fire burn out and we can collect the ashes in the morning.’ Festus was not to be buried in the small cemetery on this side of the road. Instead the ashes were to be carried to his widow and family in Narbonensis. Ferox had still not got over his surprise at hearing that the dead man was married, and felt guilty at not having bothered to find out more about his subordinates. Not only married, but the man had seven children. Festus had never spoken of them, but then Ferox was not one to speak of his own life outside the army except with his closest friends, and even then, only rarely. The news had made him regret the centurion’s death even more and it was a relief to discover that Festus’ estate was considerable and had gone entirely to his widow and offspring.

‘Did you ever meet her?’ Ferox asked later that night, as he once again leaned on the parapet above the main gate and stared up at the slim moon and the vast field of stars around it. He had taken to coming here whenever he wanted to think and could find no excuse to leave the fort. Sabinus was on duty that night, and inspecting the sentries.

‘No. There is a picture in his quarters. She looks…’ Sabinus struggled for the right words. ‘A little ferocious? I am sure that the fault is with the artist. Some women have an enigmatic beauty and Festus spoke very highly of her as wife and as a mother.’

Ferox had not realised that the two men were as close, for they seemed so different, although spending a long winter at Piroboridava was likely to make a man eager for any company. Down below the pyre was no more than a red glow in the night.

‘I have written a letter to her and will forward it with my report with the request that it be sent on. The ashes will have to wait until we can find someone able to take them.’

‘Merchants will start coming through soon,’ Sabinus said. ‘A few of them at least. The track through the pass isn’t the easiest, so most take one of the other routes. The bridge may make a difference though – when it is finished that is.’

Ferox nodded. ‘In the meantime we shall soon have some other visitors. Your new legatus is coming in a few weeks and sends word to expect him and a large party. Says he wants to inspect as many of the vexillations of I Minervia as he can, now that he is taking over.’

‘ Omnes ad stercus ,’ hissed a legionary standing guard a few paces away.

‘Quite,’ Ferox agreed. ‘And more immediately the despatch rider said he saw some Roxolani lower down the valley, so we had better double the guards whenever any horses or mules are put out to graze – and tell them to keep a close watch.’

‘I thought that we were at peace,’ Sabinus said. ‘There were a few about at the end of last summer and they weren’t any trouble.’

‘Shouldn’t be trouble,’ Ferox told him, and wondered why a little voice in his head was telling him not to be a fool. ‘But they are Roxolani. They like horses. If they can steal one they will – and see it as our fault for not taking more care of our property.’

Two days passed and there was no sign of the four Brigantes. Ferox could tell that Sabinus was convinced that the men were gone for good, but did not want to say as much. After another day even Vindex showed concern and suggested riding out to take a wee look. Ferox waited. He might have been able to pick up their trail, but he doubted that anyone else had the skill and he did not wish to be seen to lose faith in Vepoc and his relatives. The rituals ought to have been completed some time ago, as both he and Vindex well knew.

That evening the regular patrol up the valley returned with two men riding double.

‘I cannot make them out,’ Sabinus said, shielding his eyes with one hand. Ferox wondered at the man’s eyesight. He could not make out the faces, but the way the men sat made it obvious to him that they were Brigantes. Once they were closer he saw Vepoc and one of the cousins. When they reached the fort and reported, the Brigantian spoke of sudden ambush and hurried flight. One man died instantly, a second bled to death as they fled, and all their mounts were lost or killed. The last cousin had his thigh pierced by an arrow, and they had fled on foot, Vepoc carrying him half the time. Throwing off pursuit they had begun the long walk home, with little food and less hope if their attackers found them again. They had been walking for two and a half days when they ran into the patrol instead.

‘Roxolani?’ Sabinus asked, holding the arrow in his hands. The medicus had managed to extract it in the hospital and claimed to be optimistic about saving the leg.

‘No, Dacian.’ Ferox took it from him and fingered the fletches. Their shape was as distinctive as the bare wood of the shaft. ‘I think we may be in for some trouble.’

THE ARCHERS WERE still young, the oldest barely twenty, and all three had spent the whole of the last war in a garrison in the far north west of the kingdom. There they had watched over a gold mine, and that was an important service to the king whose gold it was, but months passed, one year faded into the next and the Romans never came near. One of the men had shot an arrow at a bandit trying to steal a donkey. He missed. The rest of the time they watched and they trained for a war that never came. That was something the king believed could be learned from the Romans, who were so formidable in war because they spent the peace practising. Warriors called up to serve him from the clans were expected to train, learning to use their weapons, to stand together in line and prepare for the clash of battle, much of the time taught by Roman deserters. This was not the discipline of the pure, where all of life was devoted to excellence, but Brasus had to admit that it had great value. The biggest problem was that you could not train eager young men forever while denying them the chance to use what they had learned. So when the time came and enemies wandered into range, the archers had shot.

Brasus had known about the Romans soon after they rode to within a few miles of the tower, for he kept sentries along the treeline, all told to remain out of sight and some perched in the high branches. His men were keeping a good watch and in most respects they were obedient and thorough. The watcher had seen the riders and noticed that they had brought a dead man and were treating the body with reverence. To make sure and to try to understand better these men he must one day fight, Brasus had gone the next day, although since Ivonercus struck him as too clumsy, he had watched from the undergrowth on the edge of the forest. The Briton had confirmed what seemed obvious; this was a funeral of a friend or relation. They were not close enough to recognise them, other than to say that there were more Brigantes, more of Ivonercus’ kin. With great care they built a platform of wood they had brought and branches they cut. The warrior who had watched them said that they had gathered a great deal, and it seemed that they had enough for they did not return to the edge of the forest during the day.

There was no pyre, as Brasus had expected, and Ivonercus told him that his kin did not burn the dead, but raised them to the Heavens. That was interesting, and Brasus watched for longer than he had intended, given that these men presented no real threat at the moment. He watched as they fashioned the platform, saw them lift the corpse onto the top.