Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

Hadrian was beginning to think that Claudia was not quite what she seemed, and was no longer so ready to dismiss her as an empty headed nobody. She was an equestrian, a third-generation citizen, from the royal family of the biggest tribe in Britannia, claiming to be their queen, although not formally recognised, at least so far. There were plenty of would-be kings and queens throughout the empire, most of little account except locally. The red hair was a distraction, contrasting with the would-be fashionable Roman lady, and reminding the world that a barbarian lurked underneath. Hadrian could not help thinking that this was deliberate, for surely someone wanting to pose as fully Roman would have dyed it some unexceptional shade.

The tribune offered Claudia his cloak, apologising to Lepidina that he only had one. The redhead refused, very politely, as did the older lady when the embarrassed officer proffered the garment to her. So different in so many ways, the close bond between the two women was obvious, which in itself hinted that Claudia was play-acting the part of a frivolous young woman. There was something else, although Hadrian struggled to pin it down. Claudia moved well, almost like a dancer, and yet not like a dancer, and for all her good looks there was almost something boyish about her.

As the boat turned to head back under the bridge a final time the wind shifted, gusting stronger. The tribune almost fell as the boat lurched, and Claudia squealed and Lepidina gasped with surprise as the wind struck them, their dresses ballooning up over their knees for an all too brief instant.

‘Lovely the virgin seemed as the soft wind exposed her limbs, and as the zephyrs fond fluttered amid her garments, and the breeze fanned lightly in her flowing hair,’ Piso intoned.

‘She seemed most lovely to his fancy in her flight,’ Hadrian continued the quote. ‘And mad with love he followed in her steps.’

‘Quite,’ Piso said.

‘They’re married, you know, else they would not be here.’ Like the mention of Apelles, having his broad stripe tribune quoting Ovid was another sign that the man was not without learning or wit.

‘Since when did that matter?’ Piso said hungrily, and he smiled at the ladies’ embarrassment, becoming once again the crude, feckless young aristocrat. ‘The chase makes it worthwhile.’

‘You ought to be careful,’ Hadrian told him. Whatever his feelings for this man, what Piso did during his time with the legion would reflect on his own reputation. Hadrian needed to make the man useful, and if there was a mistake or worse, show to the world that he was not to blame for his tribune’s folly. ‘Daphne was turned into a tree to save her from Apollo’s lust.’

‘That’d be her problem not mine. Still, the blonde might be easier to run down. Less speed on her by the look of it.’

‘If you must be a fool, do not get caught while you are with my legion,’ Hadrian kept his voice low, so that even Ephippus could not hear, but made his tone as menacing as possible. Piso was not required to like him, and what mattered was that he obeyed.

‘My lord,’ Piso said, giving that familiar frown of earnest concentration.

Ephippus was drawing his attention to the breakwaters once again, explaining matters Hadrian already understood, but it was better to turn to this. Yet something Piso had said had let him see clearer than before, and a name for Claudia came to mind and would not go, seeming less absurd with every moment – amazon. He laughed at the thought, and still it was there, like the red hair, utterly absurd if all someone saw was the chattering, rather silly young woman.

After heading back under another arch they were to row to the far bank and stay in the fort at Dobreta for the night. The troops who were to accompany him had been ferried across the Ister during the day, along with the baggage, and all the impedimenta brought by the ladies. He could see the last load being carried across. As they came out from under the bridge, he saw the top of Dobreta’s new amphitheatre. Pontes already had one, and it was surprising how swiftly these garrisons were developing into substantial towns. When the bridge was finished they were bound to grow even more.

‘Soon be ashore now, sir,’ the helmsman told them, and pointed at the jetty.

Hadrian turned around because he wanted to take a last long look at the great bridge. He doubted that there would ever be anything else like it built in his lifetime, and part of him hoped that it never would. Like all works of genius, Apollodorus’ creation was dangerous as well as miraculous.

‘Big, isn’t it?’ Piso said.

‘You do not see it, do you?’ Hadrian said. ‘None of them do.’

Piso stared at the line of great arches. How could he not see it – the thing was vast! His commander was a strange fellow, but after the telling off, there was no harm in trying to win favour. ‘I see a wonder of engineering.’

Hadrian glanced back, saw the frowning forehead again, so turned his eyes to the bridge. ‘Have you noticed that it points both ways?’

‘Shouldn’t it?’ Piso’s confusion was obvious.

‘I mean that it can be crossed from either side.’

‘It’s a bridge.’ There was a hint of contempt in the voice.

‘Of course it is, silly me,’ Hadrian said. ‘Well, now that is sorted out, I rather think I ought to go forward and have a word with our charming guests. You stay and supervise the landing.’

Piso shook his head as the legatus of his legion and cousin of the emperor made his way carefully along the narrow strip of deck between the rowers.

THE HORSEMAN WAS silhouetted on the top of the hill, watching them. He had his arms folded, a common gesture among his kin, and the horse, its mane and tail braided with colourful ribbons, simply stood there, now and again leaning down to crop the grass. The man wore loose trousers, a long sleeved, long hemmed tunic and boots, all of them a deep grey, and had an orange-brown cloak.

Ferox had halted the column. ‘Where there’s one, there’s always more,’ he said. They had caught up with the scouts he sent ahead, pleased that they had obeyed his orders and waited after bumping into anything strange. Not that this was all that unexpected, for the spring was properly here now and this was a good place for grazing and hunting. Seeing the warrior brought back a lot of memories.

‘He’s a Sarmatian,’ Sabinus said.

‘A Red Alan,’ corrected the decurion in charge of the twenty auxiliary horsemen who had joined the fifty Carvetii and Brigantes on this ride.

Ferox gave a slight nod. He was one of the Roxolani, of the Stag clan, unless he was mistaken, although in truth it was hard to be sure when warriors often moved their tents from one band to the next. Unless the sun had stopped rising and setting, they were a tough bunch, good friends and really bad enemies, and you never quite knew which way they would go.

Vindex was less impressed. ‘Ugly beast he’s got.’ The Roxolani, like most Sarmatians, liked small horses, thick legged, rather snub nosed, but strong and able to run for hours.

‘Bet your horse says the same about you,’ the decurion suggested.

‘Cheeky bugger.’

Sabinus ignored them. ‘He doesn’t look out for trouble.’

‘They’re all thieves,’ the decurion said.

‘Aren’t we all,’ Vindex muttered. ‘Although the Romans do it in style and steal the world.’

‘Nonsense, we spread peace and enlightenment,’ Sabinus snapped, then scanned the horizon. ‘Cannot see any others, sir. Shall we press on?’