Адриан Голдсуорти - The Fort

‘So be it.’ Ivonercus drew blood and joined it to the centurion’s cut. ‘The old oath is no more, and a new one binds us to you and you to us. It is done.’

Drenched to the skin, the three men stood, arms pressed together until the two Brigantes, as if on a signal, stepped back.

‘Remember this, Roman or Silure or whatever you call yourself. This is a bond of warriors, a pledge always to fight at the other’s side whatever the cost.’

‘I understand.’

‘Then we should go,’ Ivonercus said. ‘If we run across Dacians I shall talk. If they are Romans, then it is up to you.’

‘Fine,’ Ferox agreed. ‘But one last time I beg you to stay here and wait for me. There is no need for you to take this risk, so I beg you as brothers to wait. If the Romans come this way and you have not heard from me then ride to them and tell your story if you wish, but let me try on my own first.’

Vepoc put his hand on Ferox’s shoulder. ‘We will come with you, whatever you say.’

‘The Brigantes are a stubborn people.’

‘And the Silures rarely give their word, but when they do, they keep it, is that not so?’ Vepoc said.

It was strange to hear the same proverb twice within a few days.

‘Then if we fall, it will not be your fault,’ Ivonercus told him. ‘Nor will we live and wonder whether we might have saved you had we not stayed behind.’

‘We’re coming, brother, whether you like it or not,’ Vepoc said, and his tone reminded Ferox of Vindex and made him wonder once again whether the scout and all the others were still alive.

‘Let’s go then,’ Ferox said.

THE STORM left the air far clearer, and during the morning the clouds fled to leave a sky that was a brilliant deep blue and a sun that blazed down. Brasus sensed that the end was close and felt nothing, neither joy nor fear. Diegis was beaten, the army shattered in spirit and with a quarter of its warriors dead, captured or left on the field wounded and at the enemy’s mercy. The commander had ridden hard in flight, reaching the bridge many hours before the other fugitives, accompanied by only a few dozen warriors as escort. His temper was poor, as he roundly blamed everyone but himself for the disaster and bawled at Brasus for not yet having overrun the entire fort as he had been told.

‘You had five hundred men and a simple task to complete and you have failed,’ Diegis had almost screamed the words at him. Brasus sat cross-legged on the ground while the commander had a stool. He wondered whether the king would chide the defeated commander as bluntly. Diegis had lost battles before, if never one as big and important. Afterwards he also wondered whether he should have argued and whether that might have made a difference. He doubted it. Diegis was lashing out, giving way to rage and bitterness without regard to the truth in a way that was shameful for a man supposed to be one of the pure and honoured as such. Brasus listened in silence, disgusted by the whole display, even when Diegis took this as insolence and threatened to have him flogged.

His warriors began to murmur at this, humming like bees. Sixty or more of them had gathered, sufficient to outnumber the commander’s escort.

‘Silence!’ Diegis’ voice had become shrill. ‘Silence at once!’

The humming grew louder and men started to stamp their feet in rhythm. More of his men began to gather from their tents.

‘You will be quiet!’

The warriors ignored the shouts and the general’s escort shifted uncomfortably.

At last Brasus had raised his hand in the air and his warriors had stopped and stood still.

‘Take this place!’ Diegis had spoken more softly, but the words still dripped with hatred. ‘Take this place tomorrow and kill or take prisoner all who are inside. Only then may you leave this place and bring your spoils and captives away.’ He had stared defiantly around the gathering of warriors. ‘The king chose me to lead and until he revokes that appointment this order is as one from the lips of the king himself. Take that fort!’

Tired though he was, Diegis had climbed back onto his sweat-streaked horse and led his escort away without resting any longer. After him, the ruins of the great army began to come straggling past. Brasus remained where he was, sitting on the grass, his back rigid, and still said nothing.

‘We should go, lord.’ The old warrior who had been with Brasus from the very start hesitated before touching his shoulder. ‘Diegis is no lord, only a vain fool and he is not the king. The king, were he here, would not order such useless folly.’

Brasus had stared into the distance as if he did not hear. Lightning flashed further down the valley and thunder rumbled.

‘Lord, he has lost this battle, not us. To kill these last few Romans achieves nothing and has no honour now, for they are brave.’

At last Brasus stood up. ‘Tell the men to leave if they wish, but I must stay. Fool or not, his word is the king’s and I serve the king, and it is not for me to question what he bids me to do. Go, all of you. I must do what I must do.’

No one had left during the night, and that convinced Brasus that his path was the one for honour. He would sacrifice neither them nor more than he needed of that pitiful band of survivors who had defied them for so long. Two hours after dawn he had all the men go up to the ramparts and wait. ‘Show yourselves to the Romans, but do not attack or shoot unless they attack you.’

‘Lord?’ The old warrior was puzzled, but obeyed.

When the others had gone Brasus prepared for the last fight, cleaning and oiling his armour, sharpening his falx and a smaller dagger he would take in his belt. When the sun was almost at its highest he walked through the main gate of the fort and paced down the road towards the last stronghold. Brasus did not hurry and he had not asked for trumpeters to herald his coming. The Romans would see him and if this Ferox was the man that he thought him to be, he would know what it meant.

There was a murmur from the warriors up on the walls, and muttering and calls as those who could see him spoke to the ones who could not. Faces peeped over the barricades. The Romans could not have any arrows left by now, but even if they had, he trusted them not to shoot.

Brasus stopped at the junction between the two roads, ahead of him the scarred arch of the principia was filled with a barricade.

‘Come forth, Flavius Ferox!’ he shouted in Latin. ‘Come and fight me. I am Brasus, son of Cotiso, and one of the pure and I swear that if you fight me none of your people will be harmed. Whether you die or I am slain by your hand, you have my word that we will leave you in peace and go on our way. Let us meet as warriors, fight as men, and let the rest go as strangers!’

Brasus turned and shouted the same words back towards the ramparts, this time in the tongue of his own people. The old warrior was up there and raised his hand in acknowledgement. Then Brasus faced the Romans again and spoke to them in Greek.

‘Ferox is gone!’ a man who sounded like one of the Britons called back to him. ‘Will another do?’

Somehow Brasus had not expected Ferox to die, even though so many on both sides had fallen. Doubts filled his mind for this was not as he had felt it should be.

‘I will fight your bravest and best in his place,’ he shouted.

Brasus waited. There were raised voices from within the Roman compound, angry words and complaints.