Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

Brasus was not sleeping well, unable to clear his mind, although so far he was healthy. He had always considered cleanliness a fitting accompaniment to purity of the soul. Yet all around him he saw pollution and he knew that his spirit was succumbing. Sleep had become harder, his mind refusing to empty of thoughts no matter how tired he was. When he did sleep he dreamed, and each night it seemed to be of the queen. Sometimes she stood over him, driving a spear deep into his naked flesh and sometimes she was naked too, as desirable as she was terrifying. Yet the other dreams were almost worse, when he pictured encounters, whether amid the crunching leaves of an autumn forest or a meadow rich with spring flowers, and she smiled at him, a little afraid, a little excited. Each time he woke up as he was undressing her and felt such bitter loss. For a man to take a woman as bride was right and natural, for the pure must father more souls to climb to purity of their own. Brasus should have longed and lusted for his bride to be, even though on the one occasion he had met the king’s daughter she had struck him as insipid, albeit pretty enough. Now a spell had fallen on him, cast by the sorceress from Britannia and his soul was growing dark. Brasus worried that his mistrust of Diegis was fuelled by her magic.

The commander did not help. Brasus’ men bridged both the ditches, supporting the sides of each hard-packed earth ramp with timber driven fast into the ground, so that one path wide enough for a tower led to the Roman rampart. It meant that the defenders knew where the attack would come, but at least ensured that the tower should reach their wall. At long last Diegis had realised the wisdom of this, and ordered a favoured chieftain to supervise the construction of another crossing, so that each tower could approach at different ends of the front rampart. Brasus doubted that the man put in charge understood what he was doing and his offers of advice were rejected, yet, perversely it seemed, Diegis ordered him to lead the column supporting the second tower. The whole business also meant a delay of another day before the attack was launched, as they worked on the second path. The towers had already been raised, clearly visible to the Romans even if Piso and Ivonercus had not already told them about the Dacian plan.

Brasus felt the power of the queen seeping into the camp like the mists that floated up from the river each night. Dark thoughts came and would not let themselves be pushed aside, and he wondered whether her magic brought the sickness that was killing more and more and leaving others too weak to stand, while clouding the mind of Diegis. Brasus feared for the army as he feared for his own soul.

FEROX HAD ORDERED the standards brought to the top of the tower over the porta praetoria. The carpenters had made a wooden block with grooves to take the three butt spikes so that the vexilla could stand in a row and be wreathed in garlands for this was the second day of the rose festival of the standards, twenty-one days after the first. He doubted that there would be much chance for a proper supplication, but had done what he could.

The enemy had taken longer to prepare their assault than Piso had predicted, even though the two siege towers had been ready the day before. Ferox had always wondered when the enemy planned to create routes across the ditches, as it seemed unlikely that they would try to come up the tracks leading to any of the gates, since the towers would merely be the same height as the ones over the gates and lower than the tall ones at the porta praetoria. The Romans had done their best to hinder the work, especially of the engineers toiling to the right of the track because those men seemed to know what they were doing. Perhaps a few had died from bolts and arrows, but the work had hardly slowed.

Piso had declared himself fit that morning, although he had sat in silence through the consilium after saying that he wanted to help and not take over. The arrow had come out cleanly and done little damage, so although he limped with his bandaged leg, he was sprightly enough when he climbed up to the top of the tower, shaking his head with amusement when he noticed the Brigantes’ flag. His admiration for Claudia Enica’s bare legs was as obvious, prompting her to leave and walk back to the road behind the gateway, where she was to command a score of her men, but for once not Bran and Minura, for they had another task. All save a handful of the horses had been killed in the last few days, so that the reserves were all stationed closer to the walls, with a unit behind each stretch of rampart facing the approach ramps for the towers. There were fewer reserves though, and fewer men on the walls, for although there had been no more major assaults, there had been plenty of smaller ones, and all the while the archers and engines shot at the slightest hint of a target. Plenty of men took their second, third or fourth light wound, so that barely a quarter of the garrison remained unscathed, and every day a few more died and others were hit badly. Petrullus was lucky not to have lost an eye, and would have a big scar on his cheek for the rest of his days, although he swore that he was fit for duty and remained at the east gate. Ferox had had to order his own men to save their missiles, for they were running low. The archers could shoot back any arrow they found in good enough condition, but the rest were to be saved for the next assault.

‘They are coming!’ someone shouted as the big towers lurched forward. Their timber fronts and sides were covered in hides, just as the ram had been, and they rolled on six big solid wheels.

‘No rams,’ Ephippus said after studying them for a moment. ‘Just bridges to lower once they are close.’

‘Good,’ Ferox said. He had expected as much, for the softness of earth ramparts made them absorb a lot of the force of a ram and made them hard to undermine quickly.

‘They should burn well.’

‘If we get the chance,’ Ferox agreed. There was little oil and tar left, so they had prepared torches and clay pots full of oil. Delivering them was another matter, and meant a big risk. ‘Now get ready.’

‘Are you sure, my lord?’

‘Positive.’

Piso waited until the engineer had gone before he spoke. ‘These Greeks need a firm hand, you know. Always want to argue, always have their own ideas.’

‘The Lord Hadrian holds a high opinion of his talents, and in the last month I have come to share it.’

‘Well, one would-be Greek is bound to like another,’ Piso sneered. ‘Better all offer hetacombs to Zeus, Aphrodite and Ares if we are relying on that bearded bugger to save us.’

Ferox felt it better not to be drawn. If this did not work, then he would have problems enough for the moment. ‘I must go, my lord. The engines and archers will shoot when you give the order.’

‘Good luck, Ferox,’ Piso said, managing a smile.

‘You too, sir.’

Ferox went down to the lower platform on the tower, waiting to be sure where the siege towers were heading. They were getting close to the crossings, and he heard Ephippus shouting at the crew of the monâkon to shift the great machine just a little. Hopefully that would not take too long. The tower on his left was moving steadily until it stopped, and with some care and little pushes this way and that to turn it, the men lined it up with the ramp across the ditches. The one on that side was narrower and less well made than the other. On Ferox’s right the second tower would move a few paces and then stop, but did not need to be turned and was pretty much squarely in the middle of the ramp.