The Fort

VII

THE STORY WAS simple enough. Manius Sertorius Festus had walked over to the parade ground to watch as some of his veterans marched groups of the Brigantes up and down. The warriors were formed into groups of thirty, mixing the men who had served in the royal cohort or other units with the rest for whom all this was new. After a slow start, progress was good, not least because everyone had realised that this was easier than labouring. Within a few days, they began to drill with weapons, which helped them all to feel more like warriors again. Festus had chosen instructors well, helped by the fact that many of the veterans had done this before and did not need to be watched every moment. They treated the Brigantes with a respect denied to raw tirones in a legion, picked up a few words of their language and taught the Latin commands simply, so that the whole squad and not simply the Latin speakers knew what they were supposed to do. Somehow, they made the warriors laugh, the humour simple and often crude, but enough to make the barked orders and even louder reprimands acceptable.

On this day, for the very first time, they had begun picking men from the squads to take over and drill the rest. They started with the senior soldiers, the experienced ones, and they did not do too badly. Then with the two hours of drill almost at an end, they asked if anyone else wanted to try. There were plenty of volunteers, for Brigantes were rarely short of confidence.

The centurion arrived just as they were starting, with four squads in a line along the long edge of the parade ground and the fifth and sixth formed opposite each other on the shorter edges. Festus came to stand beside one end of the main line, gesturing to the instructors to show that he was merely there to observe and did not want to take over.

‘Silentium!’ One of the Brigantes chosen to lead had a deep, powerful voice.

‘Siwentium!’ The other one was tall, the most corpulent man in the whole unit and one of the least bright. His voice was high pitched, and as he shouted turned into a squeak as he mangled the command. One of the instructors had picked him to remind the rest that this was not easy, and because a few laughs at the end of two hours of stamping and marching would do no harm.

There were sniggers from behind Festus.

‘Iunge!’*[1] The squad shuffled into close order, doing the manoeuvre well enough.

‘Lungee!’ The second squad was no less proficient in spite of the order. Behind Festus a man laughed, louder than all the others. The centurion glanced and saw that it was a tall, good-looking young recruit.

‘Parati!’[2]

‘Rapatii!’

There were giggles now, and the youth was cackling, his face red. Festus glared at them and then at the closest instructor, who was not looking in his direction. With an effort, he stopped himself from interfering, but resolved to have a word with the instructors after the parade was over. This sort of behaviour would not do at all.

‘Mole!’[3] The first squad stepped forward as one, prompting a satisfied grunt from the centurion. Done well, Festus found drill a very moving, almost spiritual experience.

‘Mole!’ The second squad responded almost as well, although he could see some of the soldiers were grinning. Behind him there was more laughter, the boy closest to him barely able to control himself. Festus gripped his slim vine cane with both hands to stop himself from intervening. The squads were marching towards each other, until they were fifteen paces apart.

‘Sta!’[4] The first squad halted, stamping their feet as one, shields and javelins not jostling too much considering how little drill these men had received.

‘Tsss!’ The command was a piercing squeal. Grinning, and fully aware of what they were doing, the second squad ignored him and kept marching forward.

‘The daft bugger’s forgotten the order,’ someone said from the ranks behind him.

‘Quiet there!’ an instructor ordered, although he could not keep the amusement out of his own voice.

‘Transforma!’[5] The first squad wavered a little, transfixed by the sight of the other group bearing down on them, before managing a ragged about face.

‘Taaa!’ The second squad were no more than eight paces away, still marching. ‘Steeee!’ The man’s voice somehow managed to become even higher. All the men behind Festus were laughing.

‘Move!’ The first squad started marching away, although some of the men in the rear rank were turning their heads to see behind them.

Instead of trying to remember the order, the big man ran in front of his own squad, waving his arms to make them stop. They quickened the pace instead. Sensing or seeing this, the first squad also began to take longer strides, the ranks becoming ragged.

‘Oh, that fat mongrel!’ The boy closest to Festus managed to say before he could say no more for laughter, made worse as the second squad began to run, and everyone else ran to get out of their way.

Then the youth dropped his spear. It fell forward, the point close enough to twitch the hem of Festus’ cloak before it hit the ground. The centurion’s response was a reflex, as he spun around and swung his cane in his left hand, letting go with his right. If he was thinking at all, he probably meant to hit the soldier’s shield. Instead, the lad was already leaning forward, whether from laughter or to pick up his spear. Held wrong way up, the gnarled top of the centurion’s cane slammed into the youth’s mouth, so that he staggered back, blood coming from a split lip.

‘Stand to attention, man!’ Festus yelled. ‘And pick that up!’ He turned away, and his temper rose again because the parade was a shambles, the two squads mingled together, some running, some barging each other with their shields.

‘You!’ Festus almost screamed at the instructors. ‘Sort that disgrace out!’

There was a thud as the youth dropped his shield onto the grass and the scrape of a sword being drawn. Festus turned, frowning, small eyes staring and saw the youth coming at him, gladius held low, blood on his chin and growling. The centurion raised his cane, while his mouth opened to shout, but it was all so fast, so absurd. He was not wearing armour that day, because for much of the time he had supervised building work and had not wanted to be encumbered. Driven by rage, the triangular point of the gladius slid easily through his two tunics and undershirt into his stomach, angled up to thrust under his ribs. He grunted with the shock, as the boy made more animal noise and grabbed the centurion by the shoulder to pull him onto the blade. The cane fell from Festus’ hand and he gasped.

No one else had moved. There had been no warning and no time. The boy was screaming, trying to wrench his sword free and only then did other men drop their shields and spears and pull him away. Festus slumped, gave a long sigh and died.

‘Oh shit!’ the soldier standing next to the boy said.

The facts were simple, and Ferox understood what had happened very quickly; the boy, whose name was Andoco, had been struck by the centurion and had killed him in reply. Even so, he spoke in turn to all the instructors and all the Brigantes who had stood close enough to see and hear what had happened, and then to the medicus from the hospital who had examined the corpse and confirmed the obvious cause of death. Then he saw Sabinus, Dionysius and Cunicius, telling them all that he had learned in case they had anything to add. Cunicius testified that Andoco was a good soldier, too young to have been in the rebellion although sent by a family who had joined Aviragus’ rebels. So far his record was unblemished, and as a well-educated and intelligent lad, there was some expectation that in due course he would be promoted.

Sabinus added that he believed Festus was rather sensitive about his weight, fearing that middle age was turning muscle to fat, so that perhaps the boy’s comment about a fat mongrel provoked him more than usual. ‘Pity he spoke in decent Latin or all he might have got was an order to be quiet.’

‘Perhaps, but how often does Festus – did Festus – use his cane?’

‘Quite often,’ Sabinus admitted. That was common enough, especially in some legions and cohorts, and the only restriction imposed by regulation was that a centurion was not allowed to inflict serious injury without making a formal charge against a soldier.

‘I am sure that you recall my telling Festus how important it was never to strike one of the Brigantes.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sabinus conceded. ‘And I heard him repeat the instruction most forcibly to our men and up until this moment all obeyed.’ The centurion’s round face was worried, but determined. He took a deep breath. ‘Nevertheless…’

Ferox sighed. ‘Nevertheless.’

There was no easy way out, for a soldier could not simply fly into a rage and kill a centurion without being punished, and there was only one penalty for such a crime. An offence to personal honour was no excuse, and the only real question was how it was to be done.

Ferox went to see Andoco, his cell guarded by one of Vindex’s Carvetii and an auxiliary. The boy had chains around his wrists and ankles, and that was necessary, at least for the moment. With effort he stood when Ferox entered, as a proud warrior should in spite of his terror. Andoco had very pale, innocent eyes, adding to his childlike appearance, and Ferox knew from the records that he was eighteen.

‘I was angry, and struck in haste, but he should not have treated me that way,’ was all that he would say when Ferox asked him to explain what had happened.

‘I am not afraid,’ the boy added, lying well enough in the circumstances.

Half an hour later Ferox strolled down to the river, Vepoc beside him, neither man speaking. Vindex and a couple of his men, along with three other Brigantes, followed twenty paces behind. The rain had stopped, the clouds scattered and a crescent moon gave enough light to see with ease. None of the men carried shields, though all had a sword in their belt. By now the picket was far behind them and they passed through the dozen or so buildings of the canabae without seeing a soul. They were alone, and Ferox knew that he was taking a risk. Vepoc was Andoco’s older brother, the other men their cousins. At least this way the numbers were equal and whatever happened would be fair.

They reached the bank about twenty paces from the bridge and stopped. Ferox bent down to pick up a stone, hefted it and then lobbed high, hearing a splash when it landed. There was little ice left now. For a while he waited, for he must give Vepoc and the others their chance in case they wanted to take it. His own tribe were raised to cherish silence, so he did not feel uncomfortable, although the rare occasions when Brigantes were silent – and awake – were strange.

‘Blood calls for blood,’ Vepoc said eventually.

‘Aye.’

Vepoc was about Ferox’s age, and had served in the royal ala, rising to the rank of duplicarius, a ‘double-pay man’ second only to the decurion in each turma. There were stories that before that he had been a famous warrior and raider, which in truth meant much the same thing. He had killed warriors from other clans and tribes – and Romans – and lived to tell of it, just as he had lived through the hardships of the mines and kept his pride and his strength.

‘Just as a wrong calls for vengeance,’ he said.

Ferox did not know whether Vepoc spoke of the killing of Festus, or was referring to Aviragus. He had certainly fought for the king, and been considered dangerous enough to be sentenced.

‘If Andoco was a legionary,’ Ferox began, ‘then he would be flogged and beheaded, his head placed on a stake and the rest of his corpse denied proper burial. That is the way of the army, as you know.’

‘We are not Romans.’

‘Yet you are here.’ Ferox leaned over and found another pebble. ‘And you are oath sworn to serve the Lord Trajan.’

‘If you kill him then I must kill you.’ Vepoc did not mean the emperor. ‘The centurion was a fool.’ He had his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He did not move, and was not tense or giving any other sign that he was about to spring.

Ferox tossed the stone up and caught it. ‘There are many fools in the world, and plenty of them are chieftains and lords.’

‘Andoco is my brother. Oath or not, I must avenge him, and so must our cousins.’

‘I know. The Silures understand the calls of blood.’ There was no harm in speaking as one of his own folk, and not as the citizen and centurion.

Vepoc sniffed in contempt. ‘Silures know nothing of honour.’

‘Yet any folk who have wronged us know how much we are driven to vengeance.’ Ferox reached back and threw the stone as far out as he could. There was no sound, so either he had reached a patch of ice or the far bank. ‘The choice is yours.’ He spread his arms wide and turned to face the warrior. If Vepoc wanted to kill him he had a good chance of drawing his sword and striking before Ferox could answer.

Vepoc did not move and was silent for a long while.

‘We will do it,’ he said at last. ‘Kin will slay kin on the orders of a chief so that justice will be done. Then there is nothing to avenge, since the man who gave the first insult has already gone to the Otherworld.’

Ferox lowered his arms to his side. ‘You have a day. I can give you no more.’

‘The Silures are a cruel folk,’ Vepoc told him. ‘To make a man wait so long for the end.’

‘The Silures are cruel folk, as all men tell,’ Ferox said. ‘Shall we go?’ Without waiting for an answer, he began walking back up the slope. Vepoc was one of the king’s men as were his cousins. If they wished to avenge the king’s death then they still had a chance, and could kill them if they were able and vanish into the night. On foot it would be harder to escape pursuit, but it was possible. He wanted to show them trust, and at the same time readied himself to dodge and fight if the attack came.

It did not, and Vepoc followed him for a few paces before speaking again. ‘One thing I must ask.’

Ferox halted and listened. ‘So be it,’ he agreed after hearing the explanation.

The next morning Andoco’s head was impaled on a spike over the porta praetoria. The boy had been freed from his chains and handed over to Vepoc and the others as soon as they all returned to the fort. Ferox had let them have a room in an empty barrack block that was being cleared for the rest of the unit when it arrived. The older brother and his cousins prepared a meal, and over the next hours men came to offer gifts or pay their respects to the courage of the young man. They were not just others who had served the king, and as men went to the room, paid their respects, ate a morsel and left, others saw and joined. Even some of the legionaries went, although this was not their custom. Sometime later in the night, Andoco kneeled down outside, bowed his head, and let his brother slit his throat. That at least was the story, for no one apart from the cousins were there and none of them said a word. Rumour also said that the boy was brave. Afterwards they cut off his head and carried it to the main gateway, where the sentries had been warned and Ferox was waiting. Vepoc said nothing, and with his own hands rammed the head onto the spike, for this was where enemies and criminals were to be displayed. No words were spoken. He caressed the dead man’s hair just once, and then left.

‘I do not like any of this, sir,’ Sabinus said. ‘It is so irregular.’

‘So are my men,’ Cunicius replied, and Ferox was glad to hear the hardness in his voice.

At sunset Ferox returned to the gate tower and waited for the Brigantes. Before they arrived he prised the head from its spike and wrapped it in a cloth. Then he stood, holding it in his hands.

Vepoc had painted his face white, so that it shone in the torchlight. On the road below waited his cousins, all mounted and carrying spears and shields. Andoco’s corpse lay across the back of another horse led by one of them, while each of the others drew a mule, one bearing provisions, the gifts given to the dead man and his weapons, and the other with bundles of wood and tools.

Once again no words were said, and the sentries had the sense to keep their distance and stay silent. There was something uncanny about the whole business, as if the entire garrison was holding its breath, unsure what was about to happen.

Ferox offered Vepoc the head, and the Brigantian took it. The centurion bowed and the warrior left, taking care as he went down the ladders.

‘I do not like this,’ Sabinus whispered as the Brigantes rode out through the gateway into the night. ‘How will we report it?’

Ferox did not answer, but leaned on the parapet as he watched them go.

‘The record will show that five men went on patrol,’ Julius Dionysius told him. ‘If pressed, it may be noted that one of the men was dead. The roster already shows the death of our lamented colleague, and the arrest and execution of his murderer as a warning.’

‘There’ll be questions,’ Sabinus went on. ‘There are bound to be.’

‘The responsibility is mine,’ Ferox said, still staring out, even though the horsemen had long since vanished into the darkness.

‘What if they don’t come back?’

‘Then we have a few more deserters,’ Dionysius said airily. ‘Or say they have been eaten by lions.’

‘They will come back,’ Ferox said, hoping that he was right. ‘The oath will hold them.’

‘The pledge to kill you?’ Sabinus was thinking back to the sudden, appalling burst of violence on the day Ferox arrived.

‘Perhaps,’ Ferox said, ‘or another.’

‘Brigantes keep their word,’ Vindex said. Sabinus started, for he had forgotten that the tall head of scouts was standing in the shadows. ‘Not like Silures,’ he added in the language of the tribes.

Ferox sighed. ‘Silures keep their word. It’s just that they hardly ever give it and promises don’t count.’

Sabinus shook his head, for Ferox had spoken in Latin. ‘I do not understand.’

‘I don’t think we are supposed to,’ Dionysius said.

On the following morning a pyre was prepared for Festus on the far side of the track opposite the parade ground. He had not been popular, for he lacked charm and his moods had been a little too unpredictable for the soldiers to accept him as a character. Yet there was grudging respect, a feeling that his death was a ghastly mistake, and also the desire of the veterani of I Minervia to see one of their own sent off in proper style. The centurion had liked things done to the letter of the regulation, so that is what they did.

In the afternoon they burned his corpse, and the preparations proved good because the heat was immense before the shelf collapsed and the centurion’s remains dropped into the flames. All, save the legionaries on guard duty or other essential tasks, were present, parading in their finest tunics, armour gleaming, leathers spotless, and those who had them wearing their dona and other decorations. Ferox was also in full uniform, the harness worn over his mail shirt heavy with medals, a torc at his neck and smaller ones around his wrists. Preparing all the gear was a task close to the heart of his freedman, Philo, who had done an exceptional job even by his standards. Up until now Ferox’s distinguished record was largely a matter of rumour and no more, and seeing all these awards for valour impressed even the most grizzled veterans, at least a little. Yet they were more satisfied to see that he was showing appropriate respect for the dead man and thus their legion.

There was no wind, so the black smoke climbed straight into the blue heaven and the sun’s warmth made it uncomfortably hot even some distance from the blaze. The last of the snow had melted down in the valley, although the heights remained white and that was unlikely to change for another month or more.

Ferox watched Festus burn and wondered how the mood of the garrison would change. They were still shocked and unsure, but that would not last forever. No one had stolen Venus since the day of the killing. At least the weather seemed to have turned as spring came slowly to the highlands and that ought to help. He would have to keep driving them, and that made him wonder about how to replace Festus. Ferox had not cared all that much for the dead man, finding him boorish and lacking in imagination. Still, he had met plenty of officers who were worse, and in many respects Festus had done his job well. From now on, he and the others would have more to do.

The sound of hoofs on the planking of the bridge made him turn. A rider was coming, an auxiliary trooper riding a foam-flecked horse. He recognised neither the trooper nor the mount, so this was a stranger and surely a messenger. He tried to push down the thought that any news or orders arriving during a funeral were unlikely to be good.

‘Dismiss the parade!’ he ordered Sabinus. ‘Let the fire burn out and we can collect the ashes in the morning.’ Festus was not to be buried in the small cemetery on this side of the road. Instead the ashes were to be carried to his widow and family in Narbonensis. Ferox had still not got over his surprise at hearing that the dead man was married, and felt guilty at not having bothered to find out more about his subordinates. Not only married, but the man had seven children. Festus had never spoken of them, but then Ferox was not one to speak of his own life outside the army except with his closest friends, and even then, only rarely. The news had made him regret the centurion’s death even more and it was a relief to discover that Festus’ estate was considerable and had gone entirely to his widow and offspring.

‘Did you ever meet her?’ Ferox asked later that night, as he once again leaned on the parapet above the main gate and stared up at the slim moon and the vast field of stars around it. He had taken to coming here whenever he wanted to think and could find no excuse to leave the fort. Sabinus was on duty that night, and inspecting the sentries.

‘No. There is a picture in his quarters. She looks…’ Sabinus struggled for the right words. ‘A little ferocious? I am sure that the fault is with the artist. Some women have an enigmatic beauty and Festus spoke very highly of her as wife and as a mother.’

Ferox had not realised that the two men were as close, for they seemed so different, although spending a long winter at Piroboridava was likely to make a man eager for any company. Down below the pyre was no more than a red glow in the night.

‘I have written a letter to her and will forward it with my report with the request that it be sent on. The ashes will have to wait until we can find someone able to take them.’

‘Merchants will start coming through soon,’ Sabinus said. ‘A few of them at least. The track through the pass isn’t the easiest, so most take one of the other routes. The bridge may make a difference though – when it is finished that is.’

Ferox nodded. ‘In the meantime we shall soon have some other visitors. Your new legatus is coming in a few weeks and sends word to expect him and a large party. Says he wants to inspect as many of the vexillations of I Minervia as he can, now that he is taking over.’

‘Omnes ad stercus,’ hissed a legionary standing guard a few paces away.

‘Quite,’ Ferox agreed. ‘And more immediately the despatch rider said he saw some Roxolani lower down the valley, so we had better double the guards whenever any horses or mules are put out to graze – and tell them to keep a close watch.’

‘I thought that we were at peace,’ Sabinus said. ‘There were a few about at the end of last summer and they weren’t any trouble.’

‘Shouldn’t be trouble,’ Ferox told him, and wondered why a little voice in his head was telling him not to be a fool. ‘But they are Roxolani. They like horses. If they can steal one they will – and see it as our fault for not taking more care of our property.’

Two days passed and there was no sign of the four Brigantes. Ferox could tell that Sabinus was convinced that the men were gone for good, but did not want to say as much. After another day even Vindex showed concern and suggested riding out to take a wee look. Ferox waited. He might have been able to pick up their trail, but he doubted that anyone else had the skill and he did not wish to be seen to lose faith in Vepoc and his relatives. The rituals ought to have been completed some time ago, as both he and Vindex well knew.

That evening the regular patrol up the valley returned with two men riding double.

‘I cannot make them out,’ Sabinus said, shielding his eyes with one hand. Ferox wondered at the man’s eyesight. He could not make out the faces, but the way the men sat made it obvious to him that they were Brigantes. Once they were closer he saw Vepoc and one of the cousins. When they reached the fort and reported, the Brigantian spoke of sudden ambush and hurried flight. One man died instantly, a second bled to death as they fled, and all their mounts were lost or killed. The last cousin had his thigh pierced by an arrow, and they had fled on foot, Vepoc carrying him half the time. Throwing off pursuit they had begun the long walk home, with little food and less hope if their attackers found them again. They had been walking for two and a half days when they ran into the patrol instead.

‘Roxolani?’ Sabinus asked, holding the arrow in his hands. The medicus had managed to extract it in the hospital and claimed to be optimistic about saving the leg.

‘No, Dacian.’ Ferox took it from him and fingered the fletches. Their shape was as distinctive as the bare wood of the shaft. ‘I think we may be in for some trouble.’