Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

Ardaros shrugged. ‘Because there was already a good Flavius when he arrived.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘And he is a life-taker. A taker of many lives.’

‘He’s a proper bastard all right,’ Vindex conceded. ‘But he’s a warrior and we all must kill to live.’

‘There are stories. Most must have happened when I was a slave, if they happened.’

‘Knowing the centurion they probably happened.’

‘One day five warriors swore an oath to avenge the death of their cousin and kill Flavius or die in the attempt. This was far to the east, near the mouths of the great river.’

‘I’m guessing it didn’t work out for them.’

‘Flavius was alone, and they thought they caught him unaware, sitting by his fire at night. He killed two when they attacked. The third he killed the next morning and the fourth that night, and each time he cut off the man’s head. The head of the fifth man was found within bowshot of his people’s encampment on top of a stake driven into the ground.’

Vindex nodded. It was easy enough to believe. The Silures were skilled at using the night, and Ferox was good even by their standards. The moustached warrior asked Ardaros what they were talking about, and as he explained the fair-haired one joined in the discussion and a couple of others rode over to join them.

‘He says that there were six of them – and another man says that he heard that there were eight,’ Ardaros said after a while. ‘Many tell the tale and much changes in the telling.’

‘Except that they all died.’

‘Yes.’

‘So,’ Vindex said, ‘your folk don’t have much cause to love him, do they?’

‘We used to know him. Some hate, some trust and all fear him. That is how it is and how it should be. Tomorrow morning any with a grudge may challenge him to fight and kill him if they are able. That is our way. If they do not challenge, then none may attack him for one moon after he leaves as our guest. The same applies to him. Flavius must challenge anyone or leave us in peace for the same time.’

‘What about me?’

‘What about you?’ For the first time there was impatience in Ardaros’ voice. ‘You are his sworn brother. You must fight if he refuses, do what is necessary if he dies, and then decide whether or not to avenge him.’

‘Just me?’

‘That is the duty of a friend.’

Vindex did not have more to say and nor did the others. They chased some deer, shooting several down, and soon after noon stopped to eat. The older chieftain drew his sword, shouting something as he spun around, arms wide, and then drove the blade into the earth. All of the warriors went in turn to the sword and bowed.

‘It is the symbol of their god of war, the greatest of their gods,’ Ferox said, appearing at Vindex’s side. ‘They revere the wind which blows wherever it wills as the breath of life in all living things. The air gives life and the iron sword rips it away, so they offer to both for good fortune.’

Already the pigs were cooking, the smell rich and making Vindex hungry.

‘Is this what you planned?’ he asked the centurion.

‘More or less. We’ll see in the morning. There might be trouble, so be wary, although you should not be at much risk. Should be fine as long as no one really wants to kill me.’

‘Oh shit,’ Vindex whispered. He was about to introduce Ardaros, until the man saw that Ferox was beside him and turned away.

‘He’s one of theirs, but still wary lest they think he is a spy of the empire,’ Ferox said, as if he knew or guessed who the dark warrior was. ‘No one is sure whose side anyone is on these days.’

‘Is that good?’

‘It’s how it is.’ Ferox clapped him on the shoulder, making Vindex wince from the pain. The aches were growing now that they had stopped. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Probably anyway.’

PHILO WORRIED BECAUSE never before had he been responsible for entertaining such a prestigious guest and everything had had to be done in such a hurry. Ferox had not returned, and from what the Lord Sabinus had said, this was also worrying, although Philo had waited too long and too often for his master to return to give the matter much thought. Even if the centurion had been here, the real work would have fallen to him, for Ferox had little sense of what was proper and had far too casual an approach to food, furnishings and those little touches that showed true respect for the guests and reflected honour to the host. In some ways, the centurion’s absence was for the best.

The ladies had helped, and it was fine to see them both, and even more the staff they had brought with them. Privatus, the chamberlain of the noble Sulpicia Lepidina and her husband Cerialis, was an old friend from Vindolanda, and had been a wonderful and very practical help, as well as having the sense to step back and assist rather than try to take charge. In haste they had unpacked some of their finest tableware, to add to the items produced by the queen. To the three new slaves purchased by his master were added his pick of the other households – or at least those travelling with their mistresses.

The legatus had naturally occupied a number of rooms in the praetorium, just as Ferox had ordered. His stay was to be a short one, perhaps no more than a single night, and the modest number of slaves and freedmen travelling with the noble senator were under strict instructions to make no fuss or demands and to obey Philo’s orders on domestic matters. It was courteous and a great condescension, since even Philo had to admit that his own master was of minor importance compared to a former praetor and relation of the emperor himself. It also made it easier to ignore the thinly veiled arrogance of the legatus’ staff, especially his bald freedman, Sosius.

Sulpicia Lepidina supplied the clue to one of the guest’s favourite foods, while Privatus had heard of this from one of the legatus’ staff and was able to offer the recipe. Thus, Philo was able to watch as the slaves carried a tray to place in front of each couch. Apparently it was called tetrafarmacum, and he prayed that they had put in the right mix of ham, pheasant and sows udders and baked the pastry as it should be. The whole mixture was outlandish and the name had puzzled Privatus until Philo wondered whether it was meant as a joke at the expense of the Epicureans, and Sulpicia Lepidina had nodded in approval.

Philo stood apart from the diners, and part of him enjoyed the sheer responsibility of presiding over the occasion, directing the slaves and arranging every detail like a general with an army. Once Indike passed him, carrying a small jug of sauce to garnish the meats, and as she passed she pressed his hand for a moment and smiled. It was going well, but the ‘battle’ was not yet won and the ‘enemy’ willing to acknowledge that they had been well entertained.

They had lamps on high brass stands, but not too many. Overzealous efforts to clean the walls on the part of one of the new slaves had smeared the paintings and broken off whole pieces of plaster. As a result, one nymph had only one leg left to her, while in the scene where a shepherd surprised another group of nymphs bathing, he no longer had a head, which may have helped to explain their distress. Nearby a city appeared to have suffered an earthquake, so much had fallen away. The shadows offered some protection, and only one of the guests had commented so far. For a timber fort this was a decent enough dining room, even if it could not compare to some of the ones in the stone houses in forts they had visited on the long journey from Britannia. This room was a good size, had a flagstone floor, plaster walls, and just one high window, the window closed and shutters drawn to keep out the noises and odours of the fort. Yet it had not been well maintained, and the painted walls were cracked and had damp patches even before they were attacked in an effort to clean. Nor was the place ideal, for the ceiling was lower than it should be, so that the music of the lyre player and even the diners’ conversations echoed uncomfortably.