Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

Reserves were coming up on either side, and Ferox had to hope that there was no danger to the ramparts.

‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s kill these bastards!’

PISO STILL HAD a bandage around his head, but otherwise appeared unscathed. Ferox had watched the tribune ride slowly towards the fort, a warrior on either side of him and standard-bearer and man sounding an ox horn behind them. The young aristocrat kept his hands together close behind his horse’s neck, suggesting that they were tied.

Sabinus was nervous. ‘It is not unknown for besiegers to execute or torture a captive in sight of the walls to persuade the defenders to surrender.’

Ferox did not need to be told that, for he had seen Roman armies do the same thing more than once. He had not particularly liked Piso, and doubted that anyone would wish to give in merely to save the tribune from torment, but hoped that they would not have to watch. Sosius had hinted that there were doubts over the aristocrat’s loyalty and Lepidina told him the story of the father’s incompetent plot and exile. The family sounded more like a poor joke than a real threat to the emperor.

‘I do not like it,’ Claudia said. ‘And see the rider on the left?’

Ferox had already recognised Ivonercus. ‘If they are talking, then they are not attacking,’ he said. It was four days after the big assault and during those days the archers and engines had continued to nibble away at the defenders. Twenty-three men had died during the assault, almost half in killing the Dacians surrounded and shut inside the fort when Ferox and the others had closed the gates. Half a dozen more had been killed by missiles or succumbed to their wounds in the last few days. Four times as many were wounded, not counting the flesh wounds and scratches that many more had taken. Sulpicia Lepidina had run out of bandages and begun cutting up spare clothes, including some of her own.

‘If it was good enough for the Lord Trajan, then it is good enough for me,’ she said, referring to a much trumpeted incident in the first war when the emperor had given spare cloaks and tunics to the surgeons to help them cope with a deluge of wounded. The Dacian skill with bows, and their fondness for cutting swords like the sica and the great falx always meant that there were plenty of wounded. As usual the lady had made no fuss, but simply got on with the task at hand, but the story had spread nevertheless. Ferox heard men joking that they should all stick their legs up over the parapet and take wounds, because that way Lepidina, Claudia and all the other women might end up naked.

Spirits remained high, buoyed by the victory, and managed to cope with the slaughter of half the horses, which were butchered and the meat either cooked for issue or salted. With more than a hundred animals that was a big task, and at the same time work parties laboured to build Ephippus’ acropolis, and to clear up after the fighting, whether gathering arrows and other usable material, or lifting the dead Dacians and tipping them over the ramparts to join the hundreds of corpses left by the attack. The enemy made no request for a truce to gather up their fallen, so most of the bodies lay where they were, faces changing from the odd, wax-like pallor of the newly dead into a deep red brown as they bloated and the stomachs started to burst open. The stench was awful, clawing at the throat like something physical, but at least it was outside and from the enemy.

They had burned their own corpses, using a patch of open ground where one of the granaries had once stood, and a pyre carefully planned by Ephippus to produce the most heat. Claudia Enica told her tribesmen that although this was not their way, this was what must be done, but before the thing was done relatives or someone from their clan snipped hair and cut the little finger from each body, so these could be kept and taken back to their homeland when all this was over. Ferox admired their optimism, and at times like this was glad that his wife was here, for she inspired them in a way he knew he could not. Like a family, the Brigantes seemed to forget their grievances with each other as they united against the bigger enemy. Even the gruffest and most hostile now grinned when Ferox appeared, for he was the queen’s consort and he was their war chief for the moment. She had proven her courage as well as her right to rule, leading a charge that killed or chased out all Dacians who managed to come through a hole knocked in one of the east gates. Whatever Rome said, she was their queen, descendant of Cartimandua, and Ferox was her chosen husband. So they would serve him and fight by his side, at least until this was over.

Ferox wished he knew whether Hadrian or anyone else was mustering a force to relieve them, but in his heart he doubted that help would ever come. Strangely, such thoughts did not depress him, for there was always so much to do.

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ Vindex said whenever they met, while Claudia would shake her head on the rare times that they were alone and say much the same thing. In truth there was a simplicity about it all, and trying to outwit the enemy, anticipating and blocking his next move, kept his mind far too busy to brood.

Ferox did his best to give the garrison some rest, but there were always too many things to do. Clearing up took time and effort, preparing the pyre and the corpses for cremation took more, and all had to be done before they started slaughtering horses and mules because he did not want the smell of bodies and of cooking meat to mingle in the air and stick in men’s minds. The live horses still needed grooming and care, and they would only live for as long as there was fodder and no need for their meat. Weapons needed cleaning, blades needed sharpening, armour and helmets to be greased or repaired, as did the engines, and as many new missiles made as they could. Some fatigues could not be abandoned, so men were tasked with cleaning the latrines, replacing the sponges and water. Sickness would come in time, as it always did, for the evil spirits that caused it could sense weakness in a man, but he would do his best to delay the inevitable. All of these things needed to be done, and all the while the enemy needed to be fought. Apart from the near constant deluge of missiles, now and then a few score would rush forward with ladders, so men needed to be on the walls all the time, and although they had not yet tried it, he feared another night attack, so kept strong detachments on duty throughout the hours of darkness. If the men were worked hard, then he had to work harder still, so there was little rest and when he took a break he tended to fall asleep as soon as he lay down. Queen’s consort or not, there had been no opportunity for consorting.

‘What are you smirking at?’ Claudia Enica’s sharp tone snapped him back to the present.

‘Sorry, miles away.’ He was getting tired and he knew it, sensing the same in all those around him. That was the problem. With all their numbers the enemy could rest and the garrison could not, so it would be worn away like a cliff by the sea. The only consolation was that they were doing the job and holding the Dacian army here. Ferox was surprised that they had not tried to sneak heavy supplies over the bridge, or taken the bulk across under cover of their attack. For the last two days he had not even ordered the monâkon to lob an occasional stone as reminder of what they could do, half fearing that he might remind the enemy leaders of why they had come here. He wondered whether the fort had become a challenge for them in its own right, rather than a distraction.