The Fort

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BRASUS NEVER TRUSTED a servant to sharpen his weapons, so had spent a long while sitting in his tent and honing the falx and his sica with a whetstone. The noise of scraping, and low murmurs of conversation were all that could be heard in this part of the sprawling camp, although now and then there came drunken singing from the Bastarnae. Working on the blades was a simple task, and his mind wandered less than when he had spent all those hours in the cave. For a while at least, he had forgotten the humiliations of the last few days.

Diegis and Rholes had said little as he told them of the failure of his attack on the fort. Neither had criticised him openly, but they had made him report in the presence of dozens of others, and not simply pileati and men of worth, but whoever happened to be riding in their train when he had gone to meet the advancing army. Many sneered, and he heard mockery that was spoken in a low voice, but not hidden, nor reprimanded by the commanders. Brasus had failed, and he knew it, but only by a whisker and they had managed to burn more of the enemy stores.

Brasus had told them that the Romans had an engine capable of reaching the bridge, for his scouts had seen the defenders practising with it some days before. No one had believed him, and everyone seemed to blame him when the stones came slamming down around the bridge, smashing the waggons as they crossed, shattering men and beasts as if they were clay toys. He had suggested that they try going during the hours of darkness and he had been wrong about that. Who could ever have guessed that the enemy was able to guide their missiles with such uncanny precision? Yet he still felt that the leaders had given in too easily and ought to have sent the mules one at a time and then the carts slowly. A few might have perished, but the Romans surely would not realise what was happening every time? In two or three nights, they might have got enough of the essential food and equipment across and the bulk of the army could have pressed on.

Diegis would not hear of such a plan, and Rholes was willing to agree. The older warrior was paler than Brasus remembered, slower of speech, and seemed far older and less well than he remembered.

‘The Roman filth have defied us,’ Diegis declared at the great council. ‘So they must surrender or be crushed. Now that they have seen the greatness of our numbers, they will surely give in.’

Brasus had thought that Rholes was about to say something, but after a moment the old warlord simply waved his hand, a sign of agreement among his folk. A woman mopped his brow, leaning against the chair on which he sat. She was at least thirty, a pleasant face fading with the rigours of the years, and her manner almost maternal as she fussed over Rholes. She was also the only woman he had brought with him, a far cry from his troop of companions in past campaigns. Brasus knew that he should not hope for such things, but he could not help feeling that it would have been better if Rholes still had the vigour to require more entertainment.

The commanders chose him to summon the Romans to surrender.

‘Because you know more about these people and this place than any of us,’ Diegis said to him, and then also told him precisely what he should say. ‘If they come out we can always decide then whether or not to kill them,’ the commander had added. Neither in speech nor actions did he seem to belong to the pure. ‘Now run along, and redeem yourself.’

That first direct reproof stung, all the more because it came across as casual disdain rather than based on any thought. Brasus had not expected the Romans to surrender, yet felt that the army was watching, disapproving and judging him instead of the enemy as he rode forward on that dog of a horse. The Romans mocked and laughed, and he could not help wondering whether they realised that he was the man who had attacked them. He remembered the centurion’s voice from that day in the forest when he had hidden from them. He had at least expected more respect from Ferox, if indeed his enemy knew that Brasus was the man who had almost taken his fort. Then there had been the filthy banner, and that pale, flame-haired and remarkably beautiful woman staring down, armed as if for war. Ivonercus had spoken of the queen in words of hate and fear, yet never of her loveliness. Brasus was shocked to see her because he had dreamed of that face many times, since he was a child and did not understand why. She was perfect and she was terrifying like some spirit or demon of the air. He had lost his temper, less from the mockery for all its sting, but because this was a vision and he did not know what it meant as wild desire fought with cold fear.

Diegis was not welcoming, asking whether he had said the words as instructed, and then whether he would fight as well as he had raged.

‘You will lead your warriors in an attack to distract the enemy,’ he said. ‘Against the same gate where you broke in last time. At least you can find that. Draw their eyes to you, even if you have no chance of getting in a second time.’

‘If it please my noble lord, let none think in that way.’ Rholes’ voice was louder and firmer than before. ‘What is meant as a diversion can win the day. And I feel it better that Brasus take men against the east gate. The west is strongest in daylight, and we shall need the sun’s smile to guide us and let us use our numbers. If we are to serve the king, this place must fall swiftly.’

Diegis breathed in deeply, his small eyes flicking from side to side, never looking directly at his fellow commander. ‘Do you have something in mind?’

‘I do, my lord, I do.’

Brasus listened as the plan was explained and felt his spirits rising. Almost in front of his very eyes life stirred inside Rholes, so that when he stood, shaking off the arm of his woman, he stood taller and straighter.

‘We will attack at noon,’ he declared in a voice that would have required a bolder man than Diegis to contradict. ‘But we must not let them realise that. We will form half the army ready before dawn and show every sign of attacking, for we want them on their walls so that we can kill them. Our engines and our archers will already be in place.’ He turned to Brasus. ‘It will be hard, but you must get one of the three mina stone throwers in place within reach of your gateway during the night. You may have as many men as you need. Its task will be to smash the gate down if it can – or at least make the Romans fear that this will happen.’

‘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.