Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

‘My lord, it shall be done.’

‘Good,’ Rholes said. ‘Throughout the morning we will shoot at the enemy, pressing forward ever closer, so that he must reveal himself or let our work parties tear up his stakes and fill in his ditches. When they reveal themselves we kill them or wound them or at the very least tire them.

‘The men who face them first will not lead the attack. Instead, the rest of the army, rested and fed, will take their place. That will require close supervision to prevent a shambles, so I would suggest that you, my Lord Diegis, and I supervise. The main attack will be at their front gate, using ladders and the ram. The second attack on the east gate led by Brasus – I fear you will get no rest, my boy, but I need you – with more ladders. At the other gates we will hold back, for the Romans are fond of sallying out and if they do I want men ready to smash them into pieces.’

The plan was longer, each chieftain told where to be and what to do, and Brasus felt much better as he listened to Rholes filling them all with confidence. Yet the woman’s face kept coming into his mind, and sometimes she transformed into the naked goddess of that flag, beckoning to him, enticing and mocking at the same time. The Roxolani and other Sarmatians had women leaders, he knew that, and he had encountered one or two, always finding them strange creatures, neither man nor woman. He had heard that there was one with the fifty or so Roxolani who had come to join the army, less than a tenth or twentieth of the number hoped for. The rest had gone off with their loot and had no interest in more fighting, at least for a while.

‘Are you listening, boy?’ Rholes asked.

‘Yes, my lord.’ Brasus’ wandering thoughts had not quite taken over his mind. ‘You were asking how many men I will need to move the catapult. I should guess at least one hundred, with yokes of oxen and an engineer skilled in such things.’

‘Sounds about right.’

Brasus wondered whether a ballista, even a large one, could smash through a well-built gate. He could not set it up within easy reach of a bow, and could only protect its crew a little. ‘I should like any sacks we have or can make,’ he said. ‘Filled with earth we can pile them in front of the machine.’

‘Good idea.’

The queen’s face came back to haunt him, although she was not his queen or anyone of note, merely a Roman lapdog of a faraway and unimportant tribe. Like all her kind she was a drinker of wine, impure of thought and body. Yet she had power, a strange power that was trying to reach him. Ivonercus had spoken of her as a user of magic, and all his doubts had now fallen away. A witch queen from a dark tale and yet so fair of face.

Brasus knew the strength of their army and the vulnerability of the fort, so frail compared to a proper stone-built fortress on a high peak. The plan was good, Rholes filling them all with certainty of victory. Yet in his heart he doubted.

MEN WERE STARTING to die. Ferox leaned hard against the parapet as two Brigantes carried a third in a blanket along to where the steps led down. The warrior had the broken stump of a ballista bolt sticking from his chest. It had pierced his mail shirt, and Ferox suspected that the wound would claim his life because each breath came as a desperate gasp.

‘Watch out!’

Ferox ducked at the warning and felt an arrow flick through the crest of his helmet. It was another new one, hastily repaired from pieces in the fabricae , so that there was one bare bronze and one tinned cheek piece on the iron bowl. It was a little small, leaving a clear line on his forehead because his wool hat kept slipping up.

‘Thanks,’ he said to the auxiliary who had shouted out. The man grinned, then bobbed down when another arrow hissed by.

There was still no sign of the main assault, but all around the fort archers and a few slingers were pressing ever closer. Some worked in pairs, with one using a shield to shelter the one who did the shooting. Others crouched in the ditches, although their V-shape meant that they only got some protection. That did not matter much for the men with the belly-bows – the name Ephippus used for the handheld ballista-like weapons used by some of the Dacians. Further back, there were more archers, many lobbing arrows high without worrying much about aim because chance was bound to find them a few victims, and the artillery. All told, Ferox had counted at least a score of engines, more than half scorpiones or of a similar size. The rest were bigger, of a far greater range of sizes than the army normally used. At first the shooting was wild, and there were ironic cheers when some stones and bolts struck the ground short of the walls, and even more when an archer had to scuttle aside, dropping his bow and scattering the arrows from his bag as he avoided a bouncing stone. Ferox guessed that the crews did not get much practise, but as the morning passed they were getting plenty and learning all the time.

Ferox pressed on.

‘Hot work, sir,’ a veteran of I Minervia said as yet another arrow thunked into his big, rectangular scutum. There must have been at least twenty shafts sticking out from its front already, as the soldier hefted a rock in his hand, waited and then flung. ‘That’ll learn him!’ Two more arrows struck the shield so that it quivered, but the three layers of wood encased in leather let only the merest tip of one poke through.

‘Keep it up,’ Ferox told him and went on. Another veteran had a shield almost as covered in broken stumps and shafts. He stood up in the gap between the raised sections of the parapet, took aim and sent a light javelin thrumming down. An arrow’s point rang as it struck the iron boss and bounced away. Then a bigger, much faster bolt slammed into the scutum, ripping it from the veteran’s grip so that it fell away and slid down the bank at the back of the rampart. The man ducked, wringing his left hand.

‘You all right?’ Ferox asked.

The veteran was bearded like many older soldiers. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘No. Bet the army will charge me for that!’

‘Typical army. They’d charge you for your own spit if they could.’

‘And make you get a receipt each time you go to the latrine!’ The jokes were old, very old, but there was a comfort in the familiar. ‘Yes, it’s those bastard officers that cause all the trouble.’

‘I know,’ Ferox said. ‘Can’t trust any of them.’

There was a savage crack as the top of the parapet above the man was struck by a great stone, breaking the wood and throwing up splinters.

Ferox winced. ‘I think we’ve upset them.’

‘Any chance of a month’s leave, sir?’

Ferox crouched as he went past. ‘Sorry, lad, you know the army, put it in writing or bribe some centurion.’

Ahead of him, a Brigantian rose to throw a javelin just in time to meet another great stone, ripping his head from his shoulders as missile and head kept going to land down in the intervallum. The rest of the body stood for what seemed an age, blood jetting high to spray over the other men sheltering around him, until slowly the corpse fell.

‘When are they coming, lord?’ asked another Brigantian, as he wiped blood from his lined face. He was one of the men from the mines, and that had aged him. He was wearing a helmet today, but underneath his head was wholly bald, which made him stand out for he was the only bald man among the Brigantes. ‘When are they coming?’

‘Soon,’ Ferox said. ‘Just wait and we will all be avenged.’