Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

‘It is fitting,’ a man said to him in Latin, and flashed a broad grin, the whiteness of his teeth all the brighter because his skin was a deep shade of brown unlike any of the others in the camp. ‘Chieftains talk and tell stories and will ask the Bad Flavius where he has been and what he has done.’

‘Why the bad?’ Vindex asked, but the man had already gone, called away by a scowling warrior. Another warrior, his sword belt and scabbard a deep red colour, matching his long tunic, offered the scout a bowl filled to the brim with milk, so he took it and drank, before passing it back and smiling in thanks. The young woman appeared and held out a smaller cup, this time filled with a bitter wine. Vindex drank deeply, for this was a welcome change, only handing it back when the giver must have begun to worry that none would be left. He gave the girl a big wink and she ignored him, heading off. A servant brought a platter of cheese and cuts of meat, so he took some and ate for a while. He began to pick up a few of the words for food, but otherwise the talk flowed past him. As the sun set and the stars filled the sky, there was more wine as well as mead and beer and as far as he could tell little of the conversation made much sense anymore. He saw the dark warrior a few times, but never close enough to speak. Ferox was still with the chieftains, and if they had drank as much as the rest it did not seem to have fuddled their wits for they talked on and on.

Vindex must have passed out like so many of the warriors, for he woke the next morning inside a tent. His head throbbed and he had no great urge to get up, so he lay there for some time until Ferox appeared.

‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘There is to be a hunt and we are invited as guests.’

Vindex groaned.

To his relief, the hunt began at a leisurely pace, and seemed more about taking a ride than pursuing game, as forty or so set off. The warriors rode horses decorated with ribbons, and many had donned their armour and wore swords on their hips. All had bows, and some carried quivering spears ten foot or so long.

They went south and west, heading away from the road and saw no sign of Romans. There were plenty of farmers, but none challenged the riders as they crossed over their land. Ferox rode at the head of the party, with the chieftains, while Vindex was gently led to the rear, where he was pleased to see the dark-skinned warrior.

‘How are you feeling?’ the man said, with another broad grin. ‘My head’s like thunder and I ought to be used to it by now.’

Vindex groaned, prompting a big laugh. Two other warriors, one with a golden beard and the other with a long brown moustache joined in, as did Vindex, rubbing his forehead in mock pain.

‘You are honoured, I think,’ the man said.

‘No, I’m Vindex,’ the scout replied, blinking as if still half drunk and confused. The warrior translated and the others roared with laughter once again.

‘My name is Ardaros,’ he said.

‘You don’t look as if you are from around these parts?’

‘This is my home and these are my people. I would not now exchange them for any in the wide world. I have horses and children, a wife and my own tent. And I have brothers and sisters of my clan and they have me.’ Some of the phrases came with difficulty, and Vindex guessed that Ardaros rarely spoke Latin and struggled for the right words.

‘Then you are a fortunate man,’ Vindex said, sensing the pride with which the man had spoken. ‘But I take it that it was not always so.’

Ardaros sighed. ‘The past has faded. Once I was a child and had another family who loved me. The Garamantine slavers came and took me and many others. They sold me to a Roman who sold me to a Greek, who sold me to another Roman – or at least a man who claimed that he was. He sold trinkets to fools, and his path led him – and me – to Moesia and his death. Warriors of the Golden Ox clan were on a raid and they killed him and took me as a slave. My new master was the best I had ever known and one day his tent was attacked while he was away and I fought off the enemies, killing two, though I took great hurt in the deed. My master helped me heal and made me free and his brother, and so Ardaros was born and lives as one of the truly free. The stars have blessed my path and the wind guided me.’

‘Aye,’ Vindex said. The Latin was awkward, though probably this time because there were not the right words. ‘Freedom and courage are great things.’

Shouts interrupted them. They had come over the brow and scattered a herd of pigs. The man and boy watching them showed no surprise or fear and merely watched as ponies reared or bolted away from the sudden burst of squeals.

The moustached warrior was carrying one of the tall spears and took it now in both hands, driving his mount into a canter, forcing it towards the scattering herd. He lowered the spear, point reaching out ahead and down, closing fast with one of the smaller pigs which fled in front of him. The horse balked, tried to pull away, but he checked it and went forward again, leaning to the right in his saddle as he drove the spearhead straight through the beast and then lifted his prize into the air and galloped on. All of the Roxolani whooped with delight, and the herdsmen just watched.

‘Do you want to try?’ Ardaros asked, as the fair-haired warrior offered his lance to Vindex.

‘Fonder of mutton really,’ he said, and was pleased when the translation prompted more merriment. He reached out for the spear and was surprised at its lightness. The shaft was slim, wobbling a little as he held it, and he tried to remember how the other man had done it. His mare was not keen, but Vindex had had her for years and they knew each other well, so that it did not take much tightness on her bit or more than a few taps with his heels to push her on. For the moment he had the spear upright in his right hand and kept the left for the reins. Singling out one of the larger pigs, which was slower than the rest and a big target, he swerved towards it, lowering the spear. One-handed it was awkward and end heavy, but with great effort he managed to hold it, arm bent at the elbow.

The pig was gathering pace, squealing in alarm, but he was close now. Vindex looped the end of the reins over one of his saddle horns and grasped the spear with his left hand as well. The mare was steady, keeping straight, and he lowered the spearhead, knowing that it would need less of a thrust than a steady hand to let the speed drive the iron into the beast.

The pig swerved to the right. Vindex reached, point chasing it, then his mare stuttered in her run, he felt his legs slipping from the grip of the saddle horns, and the point of the spear rammed into the ground. The shock flung him off and to the side to crash onto the soft turf.

There were more whoops of delight and amusement. Ferox passed him, a pig neatly skewered on the lance he held up.

‘Having fun?’ the centurion asked and then trotted away.

‘Bastard.’

Ardaros and the man whose lance he had taken appeared.

‘I told you I prefer mutton,’ Vindex said, and when the warrior translated his words the nearest riders cheered. The scout rose, sore, but nothing broken.

‘That’s a good horse,’ Ardaros said, for the mare had gone no more than a few yards and stopped, waiting for him.

‘That’s one mean pig.’ Vindex reached the mare and jumped up. The herdsman and his boy remained where they were, watching and saying nothing.

‘Do we pay them for these?’ he asked.

‘We do,’ Ardaros said. ‘For we do not kill them or plunder their homes. None will starve because of what we take.’

Vindex did not bother to say anything. These were not his people or his lands, and soon they were riding again, leaving the pigs and their owners far behind, apart from the bloody carcases slung behind a few saddles. ‘So tell me why they call the centurion Flavius the Bad?’ Vindex asked after they had ridden for some time.