Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

‘Poor devil,’ Vindex muttered.

‘Well, I need to do something about that as well, with our distinguished guests coming before too long. But that’s for later. Now let’s see what the Dacians pretended was their best artillery when they handed it over.’

There was far more equipment than Ferox had expected, but it was hard to make much sense of it. Both granaries were crammed with artillery and machines of one sort or another, all swathed in dust and cobwebs, arms and beams overlapping or piled in heaps. Beneath the filth some of them were painted red, blue or green, something he had never seen done on artillery before. He saw a good few scorpiones , some other bolt shooters that seemed to be of a different pattern, but similar size, and many more larger pieces, some of them truly huge. Naso whistled as he reached up to touch the huge bronze washers and the ends of twisted sinew on one piece two or three times taller than he was.

‘Throw a three mina stone at the very least,’ he said. ‘Not sure about the cord though – looks half rotted away. Like a lot of the others. Not sure how many ever worked in the first place, come to that.’

‘Any idea what these are?’ Ferox gestured at a couple of strange devices that were more like cranes than catapults, each with a thick boom pointing upwards.

Naso shook his head. ‘Buggered if I know, sir.’

‘They’re big whatever they are,’ Sabinus said, and then broke down coughing as he swallowed dust. Ferox patted the centurion on the back.

‘I want a full inventory. There must be more veterani who have at least a little experience of artillery or who can learn fast. Find as many as you can, Naso. Tell them the Bastard wants this lot sorted out – and then point out that it’s lighter work than clearing ditches and digging pits. But I want to know if there is anything that we can put to use. So tell me what works, if any of it still does, what could do with a little attention, anything else that might be made to shoot and then whether there are parts or scrap we can use for anything else.’

‘I have a book about engines,’ Sabinus said, finally recovered from his bout of coughing. His tone was apologetic. ‘My father presented me with a small travelling library of military manuals before I set out for the army. To be honest, I haven’t paid much attention. All seemed a bit dry and abstract when I tried.’

‘I would appreciate a loan, if I may,’ Ferox said.

‘Of course.’ Sabinus hesitated. ‘Do you really think we will be attacked, sir?’

Ferox doubted that the man would understand about instincts. He had already explained what he knew and what he thought it meant that morning and if that did not convince the man, then saying that he ‘knew’ it would happen was not likely to make a difference. Yet he did, and the feeling grew stronger every moment. ‘Yes,’ he said in the end. ‘I hope that I am wrong, but I am sure I am not.’

Sabinus was saved from answering by another bout of coughing. Vindex patted him this time. ‘The centurion tends to be right about things like that,’ he said as Sabinus recovered. ‘But also has a way of winning when all the odds are stacked high against him. And usually those of us with him get through as well.’

‘Begging your pardons, my lords,’ Naso said, his rough voice a croak in this dusty atmosphere, ‘but if the commander is right then we are royally humped. No way in the world that less than six hundred of us can hold a place as big as this against two or three thousand let alone ten. Not if they’re determined.’

‘Dacians usually are,’ Ferox said. ‘And they’re not just barbarians when it comes to sieges.’ He waved a hand around the great hall with its piles of artillery. ‘They’ve learned too much.’

‘Then should we hold at all, when…’ Sabinus swallowed. ‘If they come.’

‘And go where, sir?’ Naso was like a father talking to a nervous child. ‘There’s nowhere to go. Only thing between us and the Ister is a lot of nothing.’

‘That’s why we’ve got to try,’ Ferox said. ‘We’ve got time, so let’s use it.’

As they walked out onto the loading platform at the front of the granary and turned for the steps at the side leading down to ground level, Vindex walked alongside Sabinus and gave one of his sinister grins. ‘If it’s any help, since I’ve known the centurion I have expected to die more than a score of times. But as he says, I’m still here after all that. He’s a hard man to kill, and there’s a lot to be said for having him around.’

Sabinus managed a thin smile.

The dinner was a poor affair. As commander, Ferox occupied the big praetorium, but he had not brought a great household to run the place. There was just Philo, his wife Indike, and a rather slow Brigantian boy, an orphan, who had nowhere else to go. In the past, even this modest staff had seemed excessive, not least because of Philo’s relentless pursuit of cleanliness and determination to make something better of his master. The boy – and Ferox still thought of him as a boy, even though he was now twenty-five and his freedman rather than slave – was a Jew from Alexandria. He was slim, dark skinned, dark eyed, and always immaculate, somehow bleaching his tunics until they were whiter than even the most eager candidatus standing for election at Rome. Indike was smaller, even slimmer and darker, and had come originally from India even though she had been sold into slavery and shipped to the empire when she was an infant. A former dancer, most recently in Londinium, she had ended up being looked after by Philo, and the pair had fallen in love, so that Ferox had let them marry and then given both their freedom. If anything this increased their devotion and determination to run his life if possible, and at the very least turn him into a respectable, well dressed and groomed officer. It was an uphill struggle, but both had as much patience as willpower. Even so, there was only so much they could do with the limited help offered by the boy and fatigue parties of soldiers. Philo’s expression was a constant reminder that Ferox had ignored his advice to acquire more help before they came to Piroboridava.

Lucius Tettius Crescens registered no more than mild surprise at the modest array of dishes on the table between the couches, and even less at the absence of anyone else to occupy the triclinia . From his paunch, heavy neck and jowls, this was a man who enjoyed his food, but his tone was practical, and neither ingratiatingly humble or with the excessive pride of a man who had made his fortune. Dionysius had told Ferox that the merchant was a Sardinian, that he had undertaken contracts to supply the army during the last war, had bought large numbers of the prisoners taken to sell on, and had done a lot of business in the Dacian capital Sarmizegethusa, even with Decebalus himself. Tettius knew a lot of people, and plenty of them had written recommending him and asking good Romans to assist him. To his surprise, a few letters addressed directly to Ferox had preceded the man’s arrival.

‘I plan to stay for a few days, if that is acceptable,’ the merchant said after brief pleasantries. He spoke loudly and his voice echoed around the big, almost empty dining room. ‘My apologies.’

‘None needed.’

Indike appeared, bearing piping hot stew on a tray. Tettius watched her, as most men would, for she had a rare, delicate beauty and even her slightest movement had grace. The man watched, but did nothing gross, whether from respect for his host or innate decency, and Ferox was glad because he did not wish to have to rebuke a guest. ‘Would you care to stay inside the garrison? I am sure that we could find some rooms, although they may be a little basic in their comforts.’