Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

Half way through the last hour of the day, Ferox was called back to the gate tower. There were thousands of Dacians now, close enough for him to see bands of king’s men, chieftains and their kin and tenants, some groups that were surely deserters, and more than a few warbands of Bastarnae, but none of this was why he had been summoned.

‘There, sir! It’s them,’ the sentry was excited as he pointed at horsemen coming over the rise to the south west. They had a blue vexillum standard at their head, and there was a smaller figure riding a grey in the lead.

Well done, wife, or Vindex or whoever had made the decision, thought Ferox. They must have forded the river lower down, so that they did not need the bridge. That helped explain why they had taken so long to get here, for the only crossing places were half a day away and even then could only be done a couple of horses at a time because the banks were broken in just a few places allowing the animals through.

There was not any sign of waggons or pack animals, but Ferox had never really expected that. What mattered was that the horsemen kept coming over the crest and across the field towards the west gate and as far as he could see they had lost no one.

‘Scorpiones!’ Ferox shouted. He did not want Dacian archers moving to shoot at the cavalry. That was the most that the enemy could do, because they were in the wrong positions to block the horsemen and would have to move closer to the fort to get at them. If they did, then he would make them pay a high price.

Julius Dionysius appeared through the trapdoor.

‘Sorry, but would you mind going to the west gate to see them in.’

Dionysius gave a wry smile and hurried down the ladder. Ferox just heard one of the auxiliaries with him muttering, ‘Up, down, up, down, can’t the bugger make up his mind.’

The Dacians had archers with the men over the river and these ran forward to the bank. It was a long shot, but as the riders urged their weary mounts to a last great effort arrows began to loop high in the air. One of the horses stumbled and fell, throwing its rider. Another man dropped from his saddle and lay still in the grass. There was nothing Ferox could do, for the range was too great. Someone went back for the fallen man and scooped him up to ride behind his saddle. The horse took an arrow, making it kick, but both men stayed on somehow.

‘Sir!’

Ferox turned and saw the Dacians carrying a scorpio forward from behind the bath house. ‘Kill them!’ he ordered the crew on the engine next to him. Vepoc was loading again to his surprise, but then it was odd how some men took to machines. Ferox went to the trapdoor and shouted down to the crews below. ‘I want all the men with that ballista dead!’ The scorpio behind him slammed forward while he had his back turned.

‘Too low,’ Vepoc said.

‘Then get another arrow, you mongrel,’ the legionary said as he cranked the slide back.

Cracking like whips, the engines on the lower level spat their bolts. Men on the ramparts cheered as one of the Dacians was flung down. Another followed as engines in the next tower joined in. The Dacians managed a single shot, which slammed into one of the last riders in the column. He shook in the saddle and the horse arched away from the terrible blow, shaking its head, but somehow they kept going and made it through the gate. All the men on the walls and towers were shouting now, and hardly noticed that the half dozen Dacians lay dead around their scorpio.

IT WAS THE birthday of Germanicus Caesar, grandson of the divine Augustus, and a man dead some eighty-six years who had never been emperor, yet who was fondly remembered by the army. In morning orders, Ferox gave instructions for the supplication in honour of the long dead hero, although he doubted that it would be as lavish a celebration as usual.

‘Anyone too drunk to do his duty will get sent out to sober up among the Dacians, is that clear?’

‘No chance of that, sir,’ Dionysius said. All of the centurions except Petrullus were present and he was doing the rounds of the walls. ‘I can maybe squeeze a double ration of wine to issue today, but that is the most if you want it to last for a month.’

‘There’s always someone with amphorae stashed away,’ Ferox said. ‘Always.’ Dionysius was in charge of the food and was doing the job with thoroughness and ingenuity, although the picture was not good, in spite of having saved some of what was in the burned granary.

‘A month?’ Claudia Enica said. Since riding back in she was more inclined to speak up in these briefings and it no longer seemed odd in any way.

Ferox doubted that they would last that long if no help came, but had set it as a target. ‘Thirty days. You said that we can manage that, Dionysius?’

‘Yes, sir. Fifteen days on near enough full rations and then another fifteen on half and we might just make it. The animals won’t though.’ There was fodder for the horses and the few pack animals in the fort for barely six days. As Ferox had expected, the cavalry had found only the debris of the convoy, the men slaughtered, animals dead or gone, waggons broken or burned, and their contents stolen or ruined. That meant that there was no more food or fodder, nor any chance of getting any more.

‘We’ll deal with that when what we have runs out. If we have to slaughter them then may as well have the meat as fresh as possible.’

‘Eat horse?’ The queen’s face was screwed up in distaste.

‘It’s not bad,’ Ferox said. ‘If you get it tender and cook it well.’

‘Barbarian.’ Claudia Enica shook her head. ‘But then we all knew that already.’

‘Is there enough salt?’ Ferox asked Dionysius.

‘Plenty.’

‘Well, commilitones ,’ Ferox began, only to be interrupted by a cough from Claudia Enica, ‘and honoured royal leaders who like dressing up as men.’ That got a laugh, especially when she cuffed his head. ‘Do you want to be on a charge, girl?’ The queen held up her hands as if pleading for mercy, which made them laugh all the more.

‘Well, as I said, yesterday we upset the enemy’s plans.’ There were more grins. The Dacians had rested on the night of their arrival, the ox carts only arriving slowly. They camped in front of the fort, filling much of the valley with camp fires and songs. Ferox had wished that he had a few score of his fellow tribesmen to prowl the night and slit throats, but did not trust any of the still weary garrison to do such things. At dawn the enemy camp had stirred, and he had let several thousand warriors march across the bridge unmolested. Hundreds more, mainly archers, stood just out of range on all sides of the fort, but it was clear that the Dacian leaders planned to screen the garrison and march on with the bulk of their army.

When the first cart was nearing the bridge, Ferox signalled for the monâkon to be made ready. Ephippus was with them, the machine aligned by marks painted on the timber rampart that they had built in front of it. Neither he nor his crew could see the bridge, but they all knew just how to tighten the washers and crank the tension on the springs.

‘Now!’ Ferox shouted as the leading yoke of oxen plodded onto the timber of the bridge. He watched as Ephippus made a sign to ward off the evil eye, shut his eyes and then pulled the cable to release the catch. The arm slammed forward and the stone flew high. Ferox was sure that he could hear the enemy gasp, but knew it must be his imagination. He followed the arc of the pale grey stone as it went higher, seemed to slow and then was going down, faster and faster until it struck the leading ox on the head, smashing it into bloody ruin, and took the front legs off the animal alongside it.