The Fort

III

A BLIND MAN could have followed the tracks left by the horses, not that it mattered. The fugitives were well mounted, had two spare horses, and far too much of a lead. A month or so earlier, when the snow was deeper, they might not have made it up the valley to the pass at all, but Ferox reckoned that they would get there during the night if they pressed hard or at the latest tomorrow morning.

The pursuers did their best for two hours and did not see the quarry once, only the hoof prints in the snow. There was also a spear, point driven into the hard ground so that it stood upright, and surely a sign rather than an accident, but it was not one that Ferox had ever seen before.

He was disappointed by the cavalrymen provided by the garrison, or strictly speaking by their mounts, although that was really the riders’ responsibility. It was always hard to keep horses in condition during the winter, when they had to spend so many hours in their boxes and the chances to exercise were so few. Yet even allowing for that, these were in poor shape. Several looked old, almost as old as their elderly riders, and it was obvious that no one had ridden far or often even in the last few weeks when the paths were slowly becoming easier. There was a flabbiness about men and animals, infecting spirit as well as body. Not that it mattered, because he had known that the pursuit was hopeless from the start, but it was a bad sign. Even on the tour of the fort he had sensed so much that was wrong with the garrison. This was an odd place, the men stationed here bored, angry and frustrated, and none of that would help him in his task.

Ferox turned back before night started to fall, and at least the men rode with far more enthusiasm and even a little more speed on the way back to Piroboridava. The horses knew their way, knew they were going back to warmth and food and it was an effort to keep them together in a group when all were itching to race.

The Brigantes had escaped. No doubt they had heard that Decebalus was ignoring the treaty and once again welcoming army deserters into his own army, giving them rich rewards and promotion. If they played it well, then in a few months each of the fugitives could have rank, a farmstead and a pretty grey-eyed wife. That might be enough for contentment, and was better than the punishment awaiting them if ever the army caught up. Yet there was still the oath, pressing around each man’s soul. Ferox was relieved not to have to kill any more Brigantes today. Let them run, and hope never to see them again.

‘They’ll be back,’ Vindex said, breaking a silence that was unusual for him. The fort was in sight, a dark shape against the glow of the snow. ‘You know Ivonercus.’

Ferox grunted in reply, sure that his friend was right, but not wanting to talk about it. He had enough on his mind without thinking about the future. So much seemed wrong, which just meant that he was not looking at everything in the right way. There was design behind all of this, and he had to hope that he could see the truth before what he did not understand killed all of them.

Latinius Macer sighed, and only in part because he found Ferox irritating. As the current commander of the garrison, he had naturally invited the centurion to dine with him, and given the shocking events earlier in the day, a conference was all the more important.

Macer had a tidy mind, decades of experience in the army with its regulations and routine, and this was neither tidy nor very military. Instead it had the makings of a scandal, perhaps even a disaster, all caused by a succession of foolish decisions. Those choices were not his, and by the time the worst happened he should be far from this place, but the crassness of it all offended him. He was too old to expect fairness from the world any more than sense from the army, so the risk that his name would become associated with it all simply because he had handed over the command was just how the world worked. Still, he would make sure that he had done all that he could.

‘So, please help me to understand,’ he said, trying again. ‘Your own men want to kill you?’

‘Some of them.’

Macer had planned to leave Piroboridava as soon as his successor arrived, and was wondering whether or not he could still do this in the circumstances. If his health had been better he might have jumped at the excuse to stay on. Forty-three years in the army was a long, long time, and he wondered about life as a civilian.

‘Just some,’ Macer said after waiting a long time for a fuller answer. Every unit had its unpopular officers, the tyrants, the floggers, the extortioners and the ones who preyed on the soldiers’ women, or worse yet, their children. They were rare, and it took weak or lazy superiors to let matters get out of hand. Then there were mutinies or murders, and people died, sometimes even the man or men who had caused it all in the first place. It was hard to tell, but Ferox did not strike him as that sort of officer. ‘Just some,’ he repeated.

At least the meal was nothing special. Macer was no slave to his stomach, but had come to enjoy the comforts of rank and decent wealth. However, without his even making the suggestion, his steward had provided campaign meals for his last few days with the eagles. It reminded him of when he was young, fighting those crazy, brave rebels in Judaea under Vespasian and Titus, or with the heavy scent of pine resin as they chased the Chatti through their forests.

Ferox did not seem to mind being given a bowl of thick stew, flavoured with salty bacon, along with cheap posca to drink. The fine-grained bread was a concession, but having hard tack biscuit with his meal would have been going too far. Still, they sat on camp stools on either side of a folding table in one of the side rooms – the walls were colourful, but only painted in fairly simple geometric patterns. Another luxury was the warmth. As one of the few partially stone buildings in the fort, the commander’s praetorium had its own bath suite and the rooms butting on to it were always warmed by the constantly tended furnace. That was a luxury, and one that he would never have ordered for himself. Macer had come here prostrated by fever in the last weeks before the Dacian king made peace. This had been the closest base with a big hospital, and he had spent weeks there in peril of his life and months recovering. In the meantime the legionaries had decided to build a far more comfortable house for the fort’s commander than was normal on a site like this. He took it both as a complement and a sign that they understood how the army worked. When he recovered, he was by far the most senior officer in the area, already present at a fort with such a mixed garrison, while I Minervia were scattered and there was not really a main camp for him to supervise. So the army put him in charge here, and thanks to the enthusiasm of the soldiers he had lived in as much comfort as such a bleak spot could offer. Over the months and years his health had recovered a little, and it was nice to be his own master on a day-to-day basis, rather than deferring to aristocrats, who were either lazy, stupid, or just interfered in things they did not understand. Yet the appointment also told him that there would be no offer of another post after this one. His time with the eagles was done, at least if he could bring himself in all conscience to leave, now that a replacement had arrived.

Macer tried again to get at the truth. ‘Sabinus tells me that you killed their king.’

‘Yes.’ Actually Vindex had done the killing, but they had both hunted the man down and Ferox had been in charge.

‘Youthful high spirits, I presume?’ Macer’s temper was rising and he fought it down. Instead he sighed again, took another spoonful of the stew, savoured it, and then put the spoon down. ‘You do not know me,’ he began, ‘but I spent two years as a cornicularius, then five as principalis before being raised to centurion. I did not have influential friends, but I kept on climbing, slowly, but steadily. I led my own cohort, and at long last got the step to primus pilus and now praefectus castrorum. I am an eques,’ he held up his hand to show the ring, ‘and own an estate near Lepcis Magna. I grew up there, the gap-toothed lad of a tanner, and I’m going back to lord it over them and serve on the council. Now do you know what all that means?’

‘That you are a damned good soldier,’ Ferox said, his admiration genuine.

Macer grunted at the compliment. ‘What it really means is that I have seen it all and done it all. And one thing I have done more times than I can remember is bullshit to senior officers, and I’m not about to sit here and let you do it to me. So talk. Who was this king and what happened?’

‘His name was Claudius Aviragus, from the royal line of the Brigantes, they’re the—’

‘I was three years with XX Valeria Victrix under Agricola,’ Macer cut in.

‘He was from their royal house, and he or his sister in line to rule, assuming Rome decided to let the tribe have a king or queen. He’d been educated in Gaul and Rome, served as equestrian officer…’

‘Useless bastards every one of them,’ Macer muttered.

‘Aye. … Well this one got ambitious, started talking to men plotting to overthrow the Lord Trajan, and rebelled. We beat him – in the end, that is – and Neratius Marcellus, the legatus Augusti, sent me to hunt Aviragus down and bring back his head.’ Ferox shrugged. ‘I obeyed my orders.’

Macer nodded. The emperor had already been on the Danube by the time news of the rising reached Rome. An official report was read in the Senate and then published, which merely stated that there had been disturbances in Britannia, principally the north, and that after some fighting the miscreants had been killed or arrested. No one had even suggested that Trajan be hailed as imperator for the success of his local commander, implying that it was all a minor affair, and then soon the big war with Dacia had begun and everyone forgot about some problems with brigands in a distant province.

‘The Brigantes are known for their loyalty,’ Macer said. ‘So am I right in thinking that the ones wanting to kill you served this Aviragus?’

‘There was a royal ala and cohort trained and equipped like regular auxiliaries. Aviragus commanded the cavalry, but all of them followed him when he raised an army.’ Ferox did his best to explain, deciding that Macer was sensible enough to treat with respect. So he talked about how the rebels had announced that Trajan was dead and Neratius Marcellus trying to make himself emperor, which meant that they were not revolting against Rome, only against a usurper. He even mentioned the rout of the first column sent against them, and the desperate battle to break the rebel army, only won when enough loyal Brigantes came to the Romans’ aid.

‘How many of the king’s men survived?’ Macer asked.

‘More than half were taken prisoner more or less unscathed. The wounded were sent home, others fled and were not caught. Apart from the leaders, no one was too interested to go hunting for them.’

‘How many were executed?’ Macer’s tone was matter of fact. Both men knew the fate of rebels. ‘I take it that they did not just tell the prisoners that they were conscripted into the army and place you in charge.’

Ferox gave a wry smile. ‘Not quite. At least, not straightaway. But this was not a war, you see, not a rebellion, however it looked. Too many important people were connected, more or less distantly, and with the emperor about to win glory on behalf of the res publica, public trials and executions would not have fitted with the spirit of the age. All this was just a disturbance by bandit leaders, a few good men turned bad, and nothing to threaten the peace and stability of the empire.’

Macer grunted, but was sensible enough to let Ferox tell it in his own way, now that he had started.

‘A couple of dozen died, the executions private and quick – no crucifixions or trips to the arena. About a hundred were condemned to the mines, although in the event most ended up working on the salt beds. I would guess as many more were vouched for by loyal leaders, most of all Aviragus’ sister Enica, who had been staunch throughout, and they took a fresh oath to Rome and to serve her. That left almost three hundred, all of whom were given a once in a lifetime opportunity to enlist in the army.’

‘And they are your men?’ Macer rubbed his chin, an old habit he had never quite shaken off.

Ferox had a surprisingly musical laugh. ‘Would that it were so simple? Most were sent off to one of the cohorts or alae of Britons, as long as the unit was stationed well outside the province. Some settled in, and some were trouble. I have a score of recaptured deserters from that lot, and fifty mutineers. Then I have ninety of the ones from the first batch that were not sent out to a unit – maybe nobody wanted them, as some are old or speak no Latin and seem too dull to learn. I am not especially popular with any of them and none are too keen on army life in the first place. After that it gets really funny, because it was decided after a couple of years to let the ones condemned to hard labour have a chance to rehabilitate themselves through military service.’

Macer whistled softly. ‘Omnes ad stercus.’

‘They added a couple of hundred men from the loyal clans, and just to season the mix all the waifs and strays recruited in Britannia, including a fair few caught thieving and invited to join up. On paper there is a mixed force of two hundred horse and four hundred foot, but in practice they haven’t yet been all brought together in one place. Half were concentrated in Pannonia back in the autumn. Neratius Marcellus’ brother is legatus Augusti there, so was easily convinced of the wisdom of the whole thing. The appointed commander drowned while they were being ferried along the river.’

‘An accident?’

‘I suppose that is at least theoretically possible. … And so they thought of me, and here I am.’ Ferox shrugged. ‘Guess I have tried to bullshit too many senior officers over the years.’

Macer laughed. ‘They probably told you that it was because of your exceptional abilities as a leader.’

‘Something like that. They said a Briton would best understand other Britons, but that’s just because they can’t tell the differences between the tribes. And they promoted me to pilus prior of cohors VII.’ There was no enthusiasm in Ferox’s voice.

‘That will make you senior here,’ Macer said. His mind was made up, even if he was not quite sure why. The orders brought by Ferox stated that he was relieved of command at the fort. He was free to leave as soon as he chose, and could take an escort of up to fifty men – including a dozen specified by name and intended for other duties – with him. The rest were to stay, and come under Ferox’s command. His annoyance at the man was replaced by a fair bit of sympathy, but it seemed clear that hanging around would risk Ferox getting murdered before he was gone. The orders would stand and he could – and officially should – leave and let command pass to Sabinus, who was the next in seniority. Yet people would talk as they always did, and they were bound to say that he had run from responsibility. He knew that it would bother him, even far away on his farm, revelling in the African warmth, so he would go first, as ordered, before anything else could happen. It would mean a hard journey because of the weather, but a day ought to take them down the valley far enough to ease the cold.

Macer’s intent gaze fixed on Ferox. ‘Why are you still alive? And don’t bother to say that you have no taste for philosophy. You know what I mean. A lot of your men want you dead – and this Vindex – and there is always the dark of night and the quiet moment in camp or on the march. If these men were truly as determined as Britons can be – or any men consumed by hate – then we wouldn’t be having this conversation and you’d be floating down the Ister or cold in a ditch somewhere.’

‘Two tried right at the start, but I was faster.’ Ferox rubbed his chin where new stubble was already forming. He sighed. ‘That made the others think, and I am careful and maybe it is just luck, but I know what you mean. There would always be a chance if they did not mind too much the risk of arrest and death. Reckon the ones who are left would prefer to live.’

Macer nodded. ‘So here, where they can run off to a cushy billet with Decebalus, they’re more willing to remember their oath and their hatred.’

‘That’s how I see it.’

Macer made up his mind. ‘I’ll go the day after tomorrow at dawn,’ he announced. It could not be sooner, for he needed to assign the men and make sure that they drew rations, tents and baggage animals. Only a storm would stop him. ‘We can carry out the formal handover tomorrow. Will the rest of your men have arrived by then?’

Ferox shook his head. ‘I expect that they will cross your path as you make your way to Dobreta. That’s the half of the unit already in province, of course. The rest won’t be here for a month or so.’

Privately the praefectus was relieved, since no more assassination attempts were likely until the others arrived. There did not seem any reason to expect these Brigantes to be hostile to him and his party. He had not cared much for Britannia during the time he had spent there, although the campaigns had at least gained him a step in rank. The Britons were odd folk, even for barbarians. Ferox’s Latin was perfect, better indeed than his own, for all his family had struggled to give him as good an education as they could afford and for all his efforts to fit in. Yet there was an air about him, something not quite right, not quite civilized. Macer had learned that he came from the Silures, a tribe of the south west with a reputation as vicious bastards, and perhaps blood still told after all these years. They were supposed to be hard to kill, and it had taken the army more than twenty years to batter them into submission. For a moment, he wondered whether there was a grain of sense and purpose in the plan of sending Ferox and this ragbag of rebels, bandits, deserters and rival tribesmen to this place. Probably not, he decided, and it was just the army being even more like the army than usual.

‘You have told me how, my dear Ferox, and for that I thank you, but I confess that I am still baffled as to why you and your men are coming here.’

‘A friend truly learned in philosophy said to me more than once that there is much in life to convince you that the gods have a sense of humour. Or that they just don’t like some people.’ He shrugged again. ‘The Brigantes are good fighters. They’re of more use to Rome fighting its enemies than dead. Killing them would just be a waste of resources, so the idea is to make use of them and only kill them if that does not work. … But that’s only part of the story and the rest is political, so beyond a mere centurion. Aviragus’ sister is eager to be queen of her people and confirm that her family will rule for as long as their line lasts, so they say that she begged the legatus to release the prisoners and make them soldiers, and pressed for a unit to be formed combining the different factions of the tribe.’

‘What are her chances? A decision like that would have to be made by the emperor, but he would surely listen to the legatus.’

‘No idea,’ Ferox lied. He was not about to start discussing Claudia Enica with a stranger. ‘I’m not paid enough to have an opinion.’